I am mean. I don’t want to be, I don’t try to be, but yet I am terribly mean. Not only am I mean, but I am mean in the worse possible way; I take people’s insecurities and I turn it against them. Most of the time I don’t even do it on purpose, but I just can’t help blurting these things out. And I feel terrible afterwards because I can see how much it hurt them. And I wish with every ounce of my being that I would have stopped myself from saying it before I did, but there’s no way I could have.
Other times, though, I am well aware of how cruel I am being. I want to see them hurt. And it scares me just how easily I can break them with a mere handful of words. It scares me how satisfied I am to see their egos crumble beneath the weight of my words. For the precision of my words always leaves the deepest cuts, and their blunt shouts, no matter how loud, can never hurt as much as mine do.
I am too easily mean. Because of this I try to stay quiet. They always wonder why I hide my words, they think it’s out of shyness or embarrassment, but it’s because I know the pain that my words are capable of causing. Wit and intuition have their dark sides and I am not always strong enough to walk in the light. Words are powerful and therefore dangerous, which is why I choose silence.