History has always been a weapon. And stories? They're just sharper versions of the same blade—dipped in ink instead of blood.
See, the world doesn't care about what really happened. It cares about the version that sounds good. The one that sells. The one that makes the right people look noble and the inconvenient ones disappear behind labels like "unstable," "dangerous," or "broken beyond repair."
You could scream until your throat is raw. You could lay every scar bare. But if someone else holds the pen—You're the villain.
Because they'll take your pain and reframe it. They'll call your defiance "aggression." They'll call your survival "manipulation." They'll call your silence "proof."
They will edit your screams into whispers and your rage into pathology. And suddenly, you're not a person anymore. You're a problem. You're a file. You're the antagonist in a story you never even agreed to be part of.
All while the ones who pushed you to the edge play savior.
They get to talk about "what they did for you." They get applause for stepping in when they were the ones setting the fire behind the scenes.They get to be the ones who "tried their best." But you?
You get rewritten.
And once you realize that—once you see how easily your truth can be gutted and filled with someone else's narrative—you stop waiting to be understood. You stop expecting justice to arrive with kind eyes and open hands.You learn to take control of the page.
Because if they get to write you as a villain anyway, you might as well make it your own kind of myth.
Not sanitized. Not redemptive. Just true.
So here's the truth:
I was never the monster. I was the one they couldn't break. And that made me inconvenient.
So they wrote me out.
But I'm back—pen in hand, voice sharp, memory intact. And this time?
I write the story. Let's see who survives my version.
A deep, gnawing disgust rises in me whenever I'm likened to humans. Call me anything else—just not that. Because "human" is a word soaked in rot, a label synonymous with the filthiest, most cowardly trash I've ever had the misfortune of witnessing. There's nothing more offensive than being mistaken for one of them.