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What is repenting to a creature that follows instinct? Why is my nature, my affliction, so needing of forgiveness and total acceptance that the word repentance is the only one big enough that could cure it? All I remember is writing and feeling, eating and singing. My affliction doesn’t feel human. It feels metal and iron, natural but not here, not now, not me.
I know if I did sign myself over, that it would be to a black smith, someone to temper and reshape my metal, my iron to something warm and soft, malleable in the gentlest of ways. Maybe it better be an alchemist, I’m sure they could change it entirely to flesh or bone. Something normal.
I think that maybe love could change it, could mould and shape it into something placed in museums and pedestals that represents something, but I am not sure what I represent anyway. I stand because there’s bone that lets me, pain that doesn’t ache me, but not because I want to, not for something. I don’t think I find something bothersome, other than innocence being hurt and taken.
I don’t think I was ever innocent. I think I was born with guilt of something I still don’t know, something just out of the corner of my eye. Something that everyone else agrees is there but won’t tell me what. They look at me and they see it, I know they do because they always do, I know they do. There’s a big sign above my head pointing down, “im with stupid” or my shadow is telling them, gesturing, signing so I can’t hear it.
I just want them to tell me, not to change, but just to know, to know what’s so wrong with me that I don’t feel like they do or think or speak or act or dance or eat or sing or move or lie or laugh or cough or sneeze or drive or cook or write.
I promise I won’t promise to change but please tell me, just please, please, please, please, tell me. I don’t want to be the joke anymore.
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