i was right, they were all better off dead.

and i dont hit people when i drive. despite all my best efforts.
everywhere i go is a club. every conversation is an interview.
i can dream and i think that makes me a dreamer.

you didn't hear the beginning of "How to Be a Serial Killer", but a psychiatrist was trying to explain what makes serial killers different from normal people. he was talking about how people have fantasies but serial killers will focus so much energy and thought to a fantasy until they feel as though it must happen. they loose sight of what is reality and become engulfed by fantasy. all it takes is that one little impulse that they give in to. delusions. that impulse takes them from being the obsessive kid next door, who never talks to adults but talks to his dog, and turn him into the man whose face you see in the paper and you stutter and you choke because he strikes so much fear into your heart. you dont think you'll miss that kid. he was never anything special. he's special now. you'll remember him. he's finally in your dreams but you're not kissing him like he dreamed you would dream. no he's following you. he's grabbing you. he's pulling you down and he's breaking you open. you dont feel safe but he just wont stop. little cut and a little slice. you're not you anymore. he knows that. he just can't stop. when you wake up you cry. you cry and you think about that boy. you never gave him a second glance and now you must stare into his eyes every day and every night until you cant remember your name and you cry because you're hurt. you cry because you are lost. you cry because you can not love.

i ate that mango. i ate it before i even knew what was happening. i thought, but i didn't stop to think.