le petit prince

happy sunday

perhaps you'd say i'm consumed by hatred, or by spite, or call me overly dramatic in my phrases and hand-wringing; my sleepless nights, the tear-streaked papers staining the wood of my desk with ink; the books in which i seek solace, the spines worn to shreds, the pages dog-eared, phrases that express the void in me underlined in crimson. perhaps you'd be right in your claims, seeing my turmoil as too much, or too violent, or maybe against your idea of the moral "good"; but at least i feel something deeply enough for it to show through my whole self, which is more than i can say about you. you, always cowering, bottling away anything past a pleasantry under the guise of "i didn't know"; you, always speaking, but never about anything of matter, and seldom listening; you, refusing to ever actually try, lying to yourself, to others - to me.

perhaps you're right, and i am twisted and bad and bring nothing but hurt and despair through this bottomless pit that has become of my heart. still, i'd rather have this - the hatred and spite - than your mediocrity.

may you fall in love with somebody who doesn't love you back. that will be my revenge.