You’re just a monster – a blood sucking monster. So go on; suck the life out of me. I can only promise you one thing: we won’t make it out of here alive.

Spin the cube so I can see the different colored sides of you. Well I can’t find your face. Everything’s misplaced. But you won’t see the difference through your drunken ignorance. Your silence is so reassuring and your presence oh-so-calming. Oh, did my sarcasm offend your delicate version of reality? Yeah, I broke down your glass walls with the truth.

I forgot to ask you to forget (about) me, but you did it anyway. So, I’m curious… Who am I now? What paper bag face do I wear on my moronic countenance you so quickly judged (as) pathetic? I’m lower than you – a moronic, pathetic excuse for a woman. I’m weaker than the so-called “strength” you possess, but it’s not strength… It’s weakness.

Judge, meet the jury. We’ve reached a verdict. And you won’t believe it because it’s real, and reality is so far away from the place you like to call home.

Guilty, guilty, guilty.

The rope is swinging steady, but you duck under the pendulum. How ironic it is that fear and pride became such great friends?

You won’t accept the truth. You won’t accept my love for you. You won’t accept the death of your best friend, Pride. But your grip won’t last forever; one day, you’ll have to let go. And though it might be terrifying, there’s nothing you can do. You’re afraid to be broken, broken like me. You’re afraid to be hurt. You’re afraid that maybe you weren’t the man God wants you to be. And that scares the living hell out of you.

You know you can hear them, calling your name. Out loud. Candid. I hope you’re proud of what you’ve done, because pride is all you’ve got left and all you’ve become.

Guilty.

Guilty.

Guilty.

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