"It would be justifiable homicide."
"I don't think murder is ever justifiable."
"I don't think life is ever justifiable."
I was replaying all of our conversations in my head.
"I don't think hate is justifiable."
"I don't think love is justifiable."
I suppose you could see it right away, the misanthropy. I could never hide it well, try as I might in the beginning.
If I could snap the spinal column of a small white mouse I suppose I would feel better, if I could feel its tiny bones shatter and its simple organs rupture. If I could bend something familiar completely out of shape, flatten it and watch the blood ooze from its orifices, then perhaps I could be cured.
They came like prophets, each telling me that they'd be that special one, the one I'd never forget. The one I'd love.
I hate every person I'd ever loved.
They left twice as fast as they'd came.
My pretty face made up for the sores on my arms but it did not make up for the sores on my soul; my cruelty; my misanthropy.
Carnal lust and violence led me to sadism, but just like a girl cannot be a mother without a child, I couldn't be a sadist without a masochist.
Unfortunately, you were more into religion than masochism. I loved your sticky-sweet lies and your hypocrisy, addictive as morphine. You hated how I hated and I hated how you loved. You prayed and I kicked you down. You cried as I laughed and spat.
You realised that I wasn't going to let you go and you tried to save my soul. I laughed and tore your Bible. I flung my soul at you, scraping your skin but not your faith. Your eyes were red and your throat was sore. I lectured you in the philosophies of misanthropy and sadism. I think I even told you of my dreams, once.
Narcotics and blood in the morning, amphetamines and semen at night.
Your god never saved you, I hope you realise that. Your faith was futile and your love got you nowhere. Do you still love him though, your god? Do you still pray? Do you still love?
Cold under my floorboards, do you still love?