They call us liars though they have never been down our roads. We tell them truths and they bend it to fiction on a childish whim because we are ugly and broken. They are loved and so sheltered shining within a perfection that we can never obtain though it is our distraught stories they wish to tell. You dont see it in their eyes, because the most adept already lie to the core of their souls, making their fiction indistinguishable from the truth. You see it in their soft hands, beautiful faces, and unblemished bodies. Our hand are rough and calloused, our faces distorted with the years, our bodies scarred through the wounds of trials and tribulations that could never fully be explained and never honestly believed. I am wounded by this. I feel like a liar even though i speak the truth. I feel like this image i perpetuate is constantly a lie, controlling myself in such a manner that i loose faith in myself just to be allowed to fit in, just to hide the fact that i know what it means to kill. This thing inside me doesn't allow these hands to create, constantly reminding me of my talent for ruin. Yesterday i broke into four different rooms and did it with such ease. Yesterday i ripped apart the locks keeping me out because i could. Yesterday i looked a man who had been part of the Israeli forces in the eye and he took back what he said because he knew i would not stop regardless of how i bled. I am disgusted with myself for this. I am tired of these destructive hands, they serve no purpose but their own. I had wanted to create but i realize that i know not how. I am another beast who walks within the lands of Cains shadow, seeking nothing but love but finding only his inability to accept it. Is it wrong for me to accept my nature? Is it wrong to want to bleed all this bad blood away and in favor return as one who need not worry about the discrepancies of his soul? Is it so wrong to ask for forgiveness though i know not to be worthy? Is it not wrong to want to be someone that you are not?