Of the envious

I was always of the competitive ones, the kind that held a grudge with envy on the empty tiles of their house. I was one of those who in a drama attack broke my writings and laughed at burning them. I was one of the maniacs who yelled noNoNO when I wrote a word wrong. And that I spat at the feet of my friends for daring to write a tenth better than me.

I was denied from adolescence to youth in acknowledging what was my greatest drive, which was my thirst for greed to defeat. That I wanted to dance in their writings and laugh at their shame. That I was terrifyingly malicious because I needed to be the victor. It was a reason to exist.

So I welcomed every demon that came for me, with cookies and sofas I gave my soul to depression, with the brain as a souvenir. 

And I buried myself in the shades of green that his eyes had with the stupidity of defining what is perfection according to my society. And I told them to stay, to settle down. Seeking to overthrow anyone who ever deigned to read me a work that would bring tears to my eyes. Leaving me with this inevitable force of overcoming and improving. 

To grow up to be worthy of being called his acquaintance, friend, lover and family. Because I felt ashamed that my gift did not create a new universe that would destroy the rules of diction. 

I became a poisoned tree that could not read and write without feeling like a battle that has been defeated.

TA.