It was a story of people, gods and, maybe… even monsters. It was a poem meant to explain me away. It’s time to give up on this… these hands… these words. They were never the right ones and no one was ever there to listen. I never gave up on my dreams. I never had one. Not that anyone ever asked or has or will. And maybe it’s time I admit this to myself… I am the monster in the closet with the lights out screaming with its mouth closed and eyes open. You should have named me the same as my box my closet. I know I am nothing no one. It doesn’t hurt anymore maybe it never did. And monsters its like me we don’t go home. Because there is no home to return to… I may be allowed a place to rest but it isn’t home. That is something I was born without. Why did you birth me? I never asked for this. What should they call me when I am dirt dust? That’s easy. I ask to be called Sin. But then it will rain. Sin? More like it. Home… it’s like rain or snow… it’s a fleeting feeling or maybe that’s just my wishful thinking hoping someday someone will think remember me… cry for me sit with me hug me hold me never let me go… instead you told me you hated me worse you were indifferent you laughed in the face of my sorrow. You never noticed anything. By the time you looked over I was broken into a million little pieces if not more and you sneered down at me and called me Liar called me Jealous called me Brute. And somehow all those pieces you could not see never saw they managed to shatter break even more. Splinter me again and again. I don’t know really what more I can say… you are just like yours those who call me Brute to you. You don’t see me. You don’t understand. Don’t you get it? I could never be jealous of you or anyone… jealousy requires competition which means we’d have to be similar or after similar things etc in life… it’s been 28 years and you still don’t see…? All I want out of life is silence quiet… I dream of birds and their songs. I made you tea. I was Nightingale. I was Sin.

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