Don’t get me wrong, but even horrendous being are fall obsessed upon my façade. Scales all over my skin, sharpened teeth holding all the flesh of my found-dead victim. It’s fresh, the crimson, dripping all over me as I took a sip or two of its’ rancid smell. This place felt like a boudoir, and my red eyes scanned the pale of every single sins in this place.What a sight to devour, a perfect portrayal of a wonderful day.I scraped my nails into the woods, scathing in hysteric. How tragic—I killed another again—and my freedom is nowhere to be found. Once again, I’d have to speak the truth to the sky, but I’ll have to grief for the living. No tombstone, no purgatory, just my wicked laughter entering the purgatory, mocking them pathetically.But, blood tasted a lot better, isn’t it?Through the curtains of my paradoxical mind, I see the shape of creature's keening, and the demon sitting upright next to my demeanor. The intelligent imbeciles projected the chance of survival for mankind, but would they be able to live in bleaking tunnels? eating crickets to survive? My, wouldn't be better to be buried six feet under?I question it again and again; but the crowds chanted their cursing, and my tongue tasted bland.How ghastly to change from one to two; to question the sanity upon realizing that there is no way out. Goodness gracious, I do feel like growing human with each drawing breath. I do feel humanely as I witness the disgust of seeing an abhorrence, violence, hatred, rested right on your face. Is this how it feels to know the ache in your soul, a pain that's so unbearable that you begin to question more of the life you have own.My question remain as one—are you obedient enough to keep this entry as a secret? Wrapped delicately with the dripping of your sacred bloods?It's not that bad nor that it is horrid. People have their own vile and crazy remarks, and I am just one of them. They can't shun me out just from knowing that I'd be different—a little tragic from what they expect me to be. I could be just someone with decency and normalcy that's long withered by time. Just like the roses that dried, yet the thorn remains sharp enough to pain everyone who holds it. I am not to be question, nor that my sanity is to be challenged. I am my own monster.