She was broken,
we were broken
she meant nothing to me at all
in the end
he said sadly through a cloud of smoke
to his hot Mama, the Goddess
his true love
on the night of his final betrayal.
And they lived happily ever after
until she came back
from the dead and tracked the dirt they buried her in
Wickedness isn’t born like me or you or a kitten, it doesn’t sprout from the ground like a flower or a tree.
Wickedness is created, like a painting, stroke by stroke upon an unyielding piece of canvas
like a mural on a wall with nothing to stop it from becoming something else other then a cool brick wall.
Wickedness is like Frankenstein’s Monster stitched together in secret from stolen corpses taken from the ground in the dead of night against their will with rough hands and rusty shovels.
Wickedness in a tribute, a memorial to the remains of good things
that should have been.