The best friends in the world are the ones that you can have discussions of what kinks you think fictional characters have.
If you ask some you’ll hear tale,
Of how horrible I am,
How I frequently attack others over smallest faults,
How I batter them like a ram.
But how can it be that I attack,
When rarely do I speak?
Abuse taught me to internalize,
Rarely do my thoughts leak.
So why do I seem to some,
As a vile and savage beast?
One who kicks those while they’re down,
And has kittens for his nightly feast.
Truth be told I’m not so bad,
Maybe a little clumsy with my words,
And when I try to explain my lack of malice,
My explanations are unheard.
The mind likes to make itself a hero,
And likes to view the world in such a way,
Where they’re a survivor against impossible odds,
No matter what their “abusers” really did say.
I harbor no malice to anyone,
Unless they choose to strike me first,
But no one likes to see it that way,
They like to view me in the worst.