If we each wrote a book before we died

Well you’ve made it!

In the sense that “you’ve made it” the way people say when you accomplish something.

But also because you finally created the thing you wanted to. But you’re not dead yet.

You wrote in vain about those who have scarred you 

considering none other than if they’ll feel sorry 

For you when they read it.

(Even though you took their names, lives, and stories to enhance your own.)

You may have forgotten that it won’t be sympathy.

You need it too much. Too obviously and too badly.

How dare you use MY disorder to build your plot.

I’ve been used many times before.

Both tangibly and in a capacity which you just can’t grasp.

My book would have chapter on chapter, 

with the names of men.

I want purpose in life, 

well you all certainly find a purpose for me in yours

I get nothing but a say, but it’s drowned out by the sound of your screams.

You’re screaming?

Foolhardy.

You think your flavored pain makes you special. Different. More important and smarter.

Thinking that actually just makes you stupid like everyone else.

See I can do it too. I can take a name and claim torment. 

We all can.

and would, too, if we each wrote a book before we died.