Stand there. Congratulate me. Tell me how proud you are of me, as I try to wipe the ever present blood of my hands. I wave. I play at being perfect, but they know. It eats me up inside everytime. It doesn’t get easier. I haven’t become numb to it. I deliver the message. I make the world a safer place. Safe for who is still up for debate.
I am what they make me. I am who they say I am. I don’t have an identity. I slip in and out and leave the families with the mess. I can’t breathe as I shake hands and mingle. They know what I am, they know what I have done. I am spreading the mark of murder around the room.
I am their worst nightmare, but they are oh-so proud of what they have created they don’t have the time to fear me.