Oscine

I have oft been asked what constructed a monster in me? how does one curate it? how does one become it? Where I was concerned, an answer does exist within the marrow of horrors, it is plain in terms yet terse, I am not capable of forgiveness, nor am I capable of asking for it. The hurts that ever got inflicted on my skin, I never discarded it, I kept etching it in crevices, solidified it, so much so that it architectured a Palisade, it martyred every warmth within my skin, it cold pressed my mind into a significant horror. There, it is, the prologue of a pious monster, a heartless dreamer, and a ruthless annihilator.

How knowledge can be a euphemism for wreckage, as in I will wreck you. How I am terrified by human frailty

All my love—and all its ashes.