Hey, you can be yourself,
yet feeling and knowing deep down to your core that you have the traits of a psychopath.
Everybody can be us, you know.
And we can be everybody.
. . . especially on a sad, cold night.
My heart felt nauseous and sick,
we never needed anyone—
we just need someone who will stick,
by our side when we feel alone.
My whole body felt stone cold,
the scar in my palm remained;
I know I cannot ever sell,
anything that is a part of me.
I do not know,
can words explain this feeling?
I think there was an invisible sword,
in between my stomach and chest.
The truth is,
I was never content with myself.
I was not like him,
I did not do that kind of thing,
but I somehow relate to him.
Still,
I was not a perpetrator.
Yet we connect,
like a red link fastened to each other.
Is it a shame?
When we feel what the lunatic madman felt?
It is not—
it is the truth,
but it is a shame?
When I kind of feel pity for its horror?
And the nicotine swallowed me slowly.
I hope . . .
I do not know what to hope.
What is to hope?
A cold night,
a dead body,
a dead heart.
The rain is not that beautiful . . .
I am not beautiful.
I wish I can ever sell,
anything that is a part of me.
I do not know,
can words really explain this feeling?
