he destroys the world around him
not for the sake of it, he says.
but because he has to.
nobody is forcing you, boy.
to snap the branches of your mother's orchard like bones,
or watch the same branches burn before you, like the blood in her veins.
destruction is easy, destroyer.
it is excusable.
and lies roll off your silver tongue like knives, slicing you open.
slicing your mother open.
it was a difficult birth.
infants are excuse-less.
the destroyer is not of nurture, but of nature.
despite his claims of necessity, he was born to ruin,
and ruin he will.
