You spit on my plants and tell me they should be grateful for the water. You were always cruel but I think sometimes you wish you weren’t because deep down you know that being evil was never your prerogative, you just aren’t good at being anything else.

And maybe I don’t know the whole story, maybe you never meant to grow thorns and prick me so often and it was as much a mistake as it was hurtful.

Perhaps kindness is not a choice.

If I am being charitable, my hypothesis is that the evil in your actions is all you have in your soul, you can’t help it but growl and snarl at any hand coming to feed you. You don’t know what to do but guard. You don’t lick, you bite.

You look me in the eyes as you prepare to tell me you hate me with tears rolling down your face because you know that’s not how ‘I love you’ is pronounced. You speak in a confusing tongue where your dialect is harsh and what you say is never what you mean. You try to care about me and it physically hurts you so much that I don’t think it was ever in your destiny to love. Still, I hope one day you find peace, and I pray to god that the next hand that feeds you knows how to dodge.