I am a she with every blood on moon days. I don't think you understand her. The way she drowns in herself is pathetic. I abhor the scent of her idleness. I hate the disgrace of her passion. I loathe the touch of her jealousy. It all reeks of "I", of the perpetual need to impress the scattered mind. I am not insane enough to forgive her blunders. Carve it on every plaque that I hated her. That I hated her body, her thoughts, and her face. Oh, her face... my face...
I wanted to tear off my face and feed it to the hounds. But only on moon days or mondays, bad days or sometimes, most days.
Yours even as I fear to be.