This is a confession, handcuffed, miranda righted confession
I killed a girl.
I killed a girl and I liked it but-
I hate to say that she never existed.
I killed a figment of societies imagination and for that I must be punished.
To the family of the victim-
I feel no pity. For you and your harsh words could not even love her as she was.
Your family ideology was like a sharp seashell hidden within the soft, swooping sands of a beach; comfort immediately followed by pain.
Thick divits in arms, that divide her from the pack.
You may think that- if the girl is a figment of the imagination- then the family is too. But
They are very much real.
So real you can touch them, hear them, feel their warmth.
So real they can make you bleed.
I killed a girl and maybe- maybe she did nothing wrong but she deserved it.
She needed to be taken out.
For everything she allowed people to call her and do to her,
The victimology of her soul was like a cancer that needed to be cut away.
It took one gunshot to the head.
My ammunition was ink and the trigger I pulled was a pen and I killed her.
Slowly, and painfully I took her out of any hopes and dreams of becoming a princess, or a pageant girl.
As she bled out pitiful apologies I spat venom into her wounds to speed along the process.
I stomped on the bullet hole, and she bled out Prom Queen desires.
See, she may have seemed real but she never existed.
Which seems to be a fact I have to reiterate.
I stand here, and she is gone,
I killed her and she was never here,
I am real but all people want to do is talk to my imaginary double,
‘S are for fools who are lost, but I found my way.
She got lost in the twisty forest of, pink and purple lies,
She was happy being broken,
Happy being ‘her’, ‘she’
She deserved to die.
But she kept her family's love, family ties. Dressing in dresses,
Dressing to please a passive urge that grew inside her ovaries.
So there’s no love left, for a murderer like me.