I walk, amongst the ever vigilant crowd avoiding their stares, hoping that no one can see behind my mask. I am a mass of seething guilt for those whose lives I have murdered. You may find it strange; I have never caused a heart to cease to beat, yet the minds I have twisted with my words–my poetry, my letters–have withered and shrunk until they became clumps of jellied hatred towards me. In the accidental stringing together of syllables, the very alphabet betrays me. I imagine my prose as uplifting but certain individuals see it as poison. All of it rat-infested, slander-laden, demon-induced, callous-sucking, emotion-fucking sentiments.
I wonder why so many are blind to how screwed in the head I am. How inhumane, unfeeling, insensitive; how insanely vicious and clueless I must be, to shatter the trust in all of humanity in someone. The massive weight of what I have caused threatens to crush me and yet there are people who willingly follow me. Who care. I pity them for what I am bound to do to them.
I wonder why I am permitted to walk, freely, amongst the real humans of the world, when all I am is a writer.