I’ve been looking for a use for you, a purpose, some sort of box to carry around your twisted up remains, left over from that fun house mirror called irreconcilable differences (not like I saw you try). But I’ve figured it all figured out now.
You are going to be my monster.
You will be my voodoo doll, the whipping boy wearing the face of my nasty internal editor. You can be the one who tells me I’m terrible, that my unforgivable awful writing is only a reflection of my general lack of ability, my general lack of worth. That I am so mediocre most people don’t know I exist. The one who watches every word I pen (or type) hoping for a mistake to heckle, the one who says, “Any idiot can write that, hell, I can do that. I wrote that same very awful poem last week!”. You get to be him, because every writer needs a monster.
And I will joy in slapping the smugness out of you, pounding you down until you are as small and miserable as you made me and every lovely word (even the crappy ones) I write will be another slam. Because this is not about what you deserve, but about me.
About what I deserve.
About how in my psyche, you are the monster, not me. But you’re my monster and I can use you, even if it’s just to stand on so that the view’s a little nicer from here.