Who the hell do I think I am?
What does it matter,
I am still a monster.
I write my stories,
Without consideration of everyone who might read my stories.
I've hurt the one person I love the most,
Twice and all without consideration.
So why should I expect forgiveness,
Especially as an inconsiderate monster.
Entertainment without victimizing,
Putting myself in all my possible readers shoes.
The guilt doesn't matter not when forgiveness is not mine to ask for.
Love should open my eyes,
To see all the hurt I can protect against.
Instead, I was the monster that I wasn't protecting from.
I turned love and trust into something so ugly.
I can only try to be considerate...because one day,
I, too, might have horrible experience of being a victim.
Thus, I have to try to understand now,
Understand all forms of victimization.
And write as if I was a victim, myself.