The Random Proses stored away.

Violence to protect

Deep inside and beyond the joyful face and soft skin- there's malice and hostility in my organs deep. There's fear, there's caution, and there's anger.

I was made mean

I was made to be so isolated

I was never born with these feelings, I was never programmed to always be mad.

So, in the end, growing like this was the only way I could've gained all of this animosity, all of this hatred. That should be someone else's fault but it's mine since I was made to bare my teeth.

In truth, I'm not a violent person, not even I know why I hurt others.

I don't want to live cautiously at all, I don't want to live with towering bulwarks all around me.

It's become instinct for me to be so scared yet even with these warning signs, I don't budge and stay with the very thing causing me pain all throughout. Because, it gives such freedom from the things I loathe and try to desperately escape.

It's pathetic to cry over the voice that probably doesn't remember me whole, just seeing me as something else- to call, to insult, to toy. But I enjoyed it so, why is that? Is my solace just the agony inflicted upon me?

There are plenty of reasons to hate me. I cry about it; I cry about how imperfect I am. Only to find myself back at my habit's door. Ready, excited, and happy. I'm happy this way, I really am. And I can't ever escape from the very things that bring me such joy, can't I?

I'd destroy everything deemed disgusting of me, everything that's annoying of me. But after all of that, who would I even be anyway?

You wouldn't love me in my violence,

You wouldn't love me in my aggression,

You don't know how repulsive I was made to be.

But even with all of that, I still have dreams and desires.

But I'm still begging for the love and adoration I fear. There are many people I've sought out for, just to fill something forever. But it's not forever, and ever. It'll never last due to my claws desperately trying to claw for attention only to hurt others deeply

I was ready to give myself completely for others, and now it's my fault?

Please, please, please, give me a sign if they're all still listening- see if there's a chance for me to be liked again without having to be pushed down into my own body's consciousness.

I am a loud child, a needy child, a disorderly, disobedient, and messy child. But I feel so much pain when you treat me as such even if I'm already so strong.

But I want to grow, my attempts will not be diminished.

Yet you will never understand the complexity of my existence nor the lengths I'll go to just to be happy.

If my silence cannot speak to you, then my shouts and rambles will. I hope they sting, bruise, and burn deeply.

If you don't feel the sorrow I have, then my anger and rage will.

I rarely wish such desolation onto others but when I do, it's genuine- it's real. And if I can't comprehend the hurt I wish to inflict, then the world will.

My mother never wore this rage, even if we looked the same- and if our eyes had the same exhaustion. No, this anger was from my father and only him. After all, there will always be an angry person in the house if one was raised by one.

When does a monster such as me, become not a monster?

Simply, only when you love it.