My dearest,

I need to write this down and hope against all hope you will get to see it, because you’re the only one who would understand enough about my life to know what I mean. You know me, you know how I think, how I come to conclusions, you know all there is and some pieces I don’t like to think about.

There is something that pushes me to be mean and evil and should I believe in god, I swear I would live with the constant fear of being struck down when I get out of bet to use to loo. I would fear Hell but how can you be afraid of a choice? I wish I could blame some sort of tempting force, some devil or demon or inherent evil, but there is none of that.

I feel bad for my feelings and I wish I didn’t have them; and then I accept them and bask in them, relish in how much life they bring out in me. My love, I must have found out what it means to be human. There is no other explanation to this. That, or I’m a sociopath, which really shouldn’t be a surprise to anyone.

I hate and wish bad things to people I love. I justify these feelings by telling myself that it would help them on the long run. And I do it half out of revenge. Because I cannot stand people being so full of themselves and so self assured and so bloody cocky. I cannot stand them disagreeing with me, contradicting me on matter I have experienced further than they have. And then they stand a bit taller and are so bloody happy to try to prove to me that they could do what I do, what I need to be doing better than me. They are so fucking proud to shoe me that they can do what I do and their own shit,

And for that, I wish things for them. Struggles. Some degree of pain. Disappointment. I want to build them, add brick by brick to their core, paint them beautifully in glowing colours and why they are finally confident enough to take over the world, I want to shatter them to pieces and watch them become stronger, do it all again but alone — be powerful enough to deal.

Fucking little cunts going on and on about the struggles of their lives, about the pain, the self harm, the imagined aches and the various illnesses. I want them to know true pain so that when asked what made them be so strong individuals, they will have an answer. I love all of them and I want all of them to fucking drop down and scream with the injustice and hurt. I want that because I love them. I fucking love them and hate them and I’m thinking, when I finally see all these words on a screen, that I’m the stuff psychos are made of. At least it would give me a purpose.

I wish bad things to happen to the people I love. I regret them almost instantly.

But my love, I feel more alive than ever.

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