it feels especially bitter to hear you say that you know me.
after more than a thousand days, eight thousand and thirty-five, to be precise,
i really hoped you'd know me, indeed.
yet, despite my best efforts, you seem to know only the parts you wish to.
it feels... absurd, and bold beyond common sense, to hear you brag abou how
much you know me.
do you truly think you know me that well?
logic would beg to differ.
I would beg to differ.
you couldn't tell a child from a tool.
you couldn't tell a teenager from a soldier.
you couldn't tell a razor cut from a cat scratch.
you couldn't tell your son from a dog,
if either one bit the hand that beats them.
you couldn't tell then,
you can't tell now.
you can't know me.
you wouldn't know where to start if you ever wanted to.
and, the bitterest, unfairest of all, is that
because of you, i can hardly say i know myself.
i can't separate myself from you.
i can't separate my worth from my usefulness.
i can't separate my hands from guns.
i can't separate all thi rage, all this fear, all the curses you made me carve on my bones
from who i wished i was.
i can't even tell who is that person anymore.
