I know you live inside of all of us. You're the busted bits that hunger for attention at any cost. The parts that the most broken people use as an excuse to avoid taking accountability for their utter selfishness. I feel like i've been fighting her demons as far back as my memory will take me. Hers are the worst kind. Ungrateful, untamed, unapologetic, and relentless in every way. They never die. They always win. And they manipulate the hearts of the innocent people that can't recognize their presence. Hers make me want to scream until my own heart bursts into pieces from the anger that's been stashed away behind it for all these years.
I'm just not sure how many of her demons I can fight anymore. Because I have demons too. Deeply rooted in the darkest places of my soul where only the sharpest hurt and pain could cut them out. And every day her condescending voice cuts like a blade desperately seeking their reaction. She chooses the most vulnerable parts of me and she rips into them as if she has the right. As if somehow her poor choices afford her the power to be a villain and a victim simultaneously.
and then she blames you. the demons. the bad guys. the broken bits. the unflattering consistencies. she lets you take the fall for the moments she is not bold enough to even remember.
the rest of us are left standing hopeful that somewhere in this story there is a hero. Something or someone that his going to save us all from these destructive, all consuming, pathetic pieces of her existence. But that part of the story never gets written. Instead, it's an endless loop of accusations, pain, guilt, and suffering. Attached to every person in the story except for the one who is writing it. She just lives. Throwing her vodka-soaked daggers at the only people stupid enough to believe that maybe someday she will start aiming at the real bad guys. And that there is even a slight possibility there could be an ending to this massacre where she becomes the hero.
if only just to save herself.
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