I don't like roses.

Everyone likes roses. They are so pretty, so elegant.

I don't see what their disillusioned minds show them.

The rose's petals bloom in their eyes, blinding them to the truth. They miss the sharp thin thorns ready to slice open the tender pads of their fingers.

No matter how something looks on the outside, there’s always a twisted demented thing in the back ground ready to wrap it’s darkness around you. I used to be scared of the shadows inside me, I used to push them back and let them grow, afraid one day the deep well inside would just burst. And my hatred would spill like the plague inside me, contaminate me, fill me.

I used to hide in the shadows afraid of my own self, a smile on my face for anyone to view, a laugh on my lips for everyone to hear. I took my steps with care, not to jar anything that would be let loose. My heart would pound when someone came near me, afraid for them to see the smile never reached my eyes, the laugh was never true. I didn’t know that I was wrong for only one thing back then.

Hiding myself.

Did you know humans actually love war? We love killing each other. We love destroying lives. You could say you are a peace person and you’d never kill anyone. But you can’t deny that thrill you get once your foes are banished to the seventh layer of hell.

I used to kill people in my mind, all wrapped up in the covers and inky night, my head covered with a pillow as if I could smoother my thoughts. Yet they ran unbidden through my head, running into each other, colliding, smashing, damaging.

I would kill in my night dreams. I would exact the revenge my body so itched to do, my hands twitched on the bed sheets in an effort to control my urges. The thoughts threatened to consume me. I would rip them bloodied from their skin, gouging their eyes out with my fingernails, bashing their heads into the floors until a mass of pale flesh and life supporting blood gushed out.

I don’t know why I fought it so much.

I have a question for you though. One that will make you recoil from me, one that may make you not even want to read this little piece of paper you probably found on the floor. Or drifting in the wind from where I sent it sailing. I am about to ask you the question everyone always hedges around… never wanting for other’s to see how uncomfortable the question really makes them. You can kill a million people but you are condemned as soon as you commit this offence… even the person previous problems don’t matter.

Have you ever wanted to kill your parents? Wrap your hands around the old neck of person that bore you and snap it?

I have. My father always was a heavy man, his fat spilling over his belt, out of his sleeves, jiggling obscenely at his neck. When ever he would yell I would watch the way his body swayed back and forth, beating in time to the pulse I wanted to lay bare at his neck.

I hated that man. Even when I knew it was wrong to hate your parents, even when I knew he was just trying his best, like mother said. Everything about him terrified me, I even went as far to develop an eating disorder so I would never, ever be fat like him.

That fat made it easy for his body to lay on top of me, breathing his poor disguised rancid breath muttering my ear. Easier for his hands to rip open my soul and strip it from me.

It also made it easier to destroy him in turn.