Silverfish

Letter to Bryce

What the fuck is wrong with you.

This is not a question because I already know.

Everything is wrong with you.

Your sense of fabricated empathy is sickening.

You have that terrible smile that bites in such a caustic, manneristic way.

Your mind houses a sticky parasite that allows only for you to see what is right in front of you.

And along with that much you're a fucking idiot.

You do not own your thoughts.

Instead, you do, and you take, and you watch, and you wait.

And you see what you can get away with.

So who did this to you?

Or were you always like this?

This time I am in fact inquiring, seriously.

I believe in the greater good, and this understanding could benefit us.

The rest of us that might not see past your pale pink promises.

And your sweet, rose scented touches.

However, I do.

I know what you are–or rather, aren't.

I know who you want to be–but can't.

And I know that she will never believe me.

She will always fall into you.

And I pity her so.