Have you seen her?

I knew this girl who was evil. Satan really won, she’s the final prize for the fair games you never win. I really do love the evil people, they make your nipples hard, you feel your neck all vulnerable and cold and they push you away but you pull their arms closer. The soothing part about evil people is, they don’t hide the truth. They got a motive, a plan, and know how to execute it. It’s always going to be your fault, you can stay and play or run and hide.

This girl was a background prop. See, all I do is observe, I do not speak, because honestly, I couldn't care less about what you're saying. It usually follows the same rhythm and I’ve got it memorized. I only wanted her because she wouldn’t know anything better and I would be her all. Sometimes I think I may have a little evil in me, I’m pretty sure being the product of two confused, frustrated and troubled people would be a factor. It’s okay, nobody pays attention to someone who threatens them.

The girl wasn’t pretty, she had such dull eyes and her face seemed to blend into itself, no definition. She looked like a raw cookie dough cut-out. I felt sorry more than anything, actually I lie, she was intriguing. Someone so bland-looking, must have many stories and a personality like blue cheese. I pursued her and I could tell she was drawn to me as much as I was drawn to her. That’s how it should be. I must admit, I was played. For the first time in my life, God must have wanted to change it up a lil.

As I mentioned before, it is always our fault if we sit and stay with these evil people. I sat with her in winter, I couldn’t even tell she was evil since the cold altered my instincts. However, every time she walked behind my back, my forehead tensed and my fingers shook. Since she told me she loved me and all I did was tell her I couldn’t love anyone, my forehead pulled in closer to itself, harder than before and my fingers couldn't listen to me.

If it is true, that I am the evil one, not her. I guess I am the one to blame for her slitting her arteries. She must have seen her blood spray her room and probably stood still. Her blood must have frozen in a couple seconds, her hair would get drier by her breaths and her fingers would be stuck in cement.
I think she was the evil one, because she was the first person to have me whispering about how I loved her, remembering her cold sweat and perfume smell and how she walked. She was so evil she had me regretting my decisions. I can tell you exactly why she wanted to do a course on typing and learn how to french braid her own hair. I hate how I can recollect all this, especially for someone who was only a project. Now I’m stuck here, creating new philosophy because, apparently, I can love.