……

I hate almost every piece of my art. I want to destroy them they have nothing special nothing memorable. I don't want to be something replaceable, but I've always been.

Let me be something else.

I've always been easily replaceable, there's nothing special in me at all, just another child whore with holes to be fucked, with hands to hold guns. I am worthless when not in use anymore. I've tried so hard to make myself special, irreplaceable, to proof I have something in me with my writings and paintings, but it's never enough. I need to create myself again so that I'm not a creation of him anymore, but more often than not I feel it's impossible. I'd rather die and I should die, for I'm utterly worthless, and the shame of being worthless is unbearable.

I want to know what he would have been if there could be a world where neither of us was programmed, where he’s just an ordinary man—my dad or my lover. But without the programmed role of his victim, I don't even exist. And he can't exist either without the role of the perpetrator.