the space above my ears.

When Outside Rome

I have habits.

I have had other habits.

Habits of pumping myself full of toxic waste to burn up calories,

Habits of seeing good and evil and nothing else.

You must know that everything comes from somewhere, you must see that I never asked to be what I was.

They lit a fuse and started a fire that still burns as we speak.

They had a habit of stepping on my fingers and cutting me with paper.

Apologies were a waste of time, a symbol of repentance to a god who has died.

Saying sorry was an invitation to being exploited.

They'd tell me, underneath the arch at lunchtime, that I was so lucky to have people like them.

Artists, to mold me.

Their blades were immunizations, they said, in short.

But they weren't that.

They were just sharp things in the hands of bullies.

Neglected hearts and minds injecting the blood of a leper into vulnerable bodies and preaching that it would fend off the common cold.

It put cracks in a lot of spirits and split mine down the center.

I believed the dark blood made me pure.
I still do.

It's wrong, I'm wrong, but you can't control the things you believe.

I feel responsible, and I am, to a certain extent.

I don't know if it's just my blood, but it feels wrong to shift the blame.

It feels like blasphemy.

It's hard, not knowing who hurt the other more.

I never really found out who was cruel and who was hurting.

I hope it's them.

I want it to be them.

That means I won.