By Synthia Tashfi
Can I admit that I'm unhappy? Or does that hurt your well-meaning narrative? Am I ungrateful to not enjoy with what I have, If what I have also counts what stirs inside of me? And trust me, that it's really really bad.
What I have inside of me can claw its way out anytime, Just waiting for the right person to hit. It makes me wonder why I don't break the rules all the time, When the good in me with them will never fit.
See you might think that I'm describing a monster, How can I be the monster, when no one's here is exactly a saint? You created me, didn't you? Now you're washing your hands of your sins, hoping what's scarlet is just paint. You haven't even ask me how I am... Can I admit that I'm unhappy?
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