Rosabelle believe

I’m a fraud.
A fraud just waiting for you to see, awaiting the pain of what will be when you see how I throw darts at dictionaries and pray that something will stick.
I am the misery within me, not this tortured soul for the art that lives in my lungs but a charlatan witch whose words are my ghosts. I don’t write because of the pain, I write because I am this pain, cause and effect of the defective deviant, the dying star that no one saw if indeed I was ever a light.
Wait until you see the bite marks I keep inside myself, the rotted flesh beneath fingernails and all the flaws I tried to keep. They’ll pour out of me like wine when the glass within me breaks.
You tell me that I’m worthy when I am the dirt under your feet. I’m cheating, charging, changing – never the same victim twice though I’ll make believe that I can save you, if you only trust me first.