Maybe my mother didn’t hug me enough.
Maybe my invisible friends didn’t want to play with me.
But I like to mentally torture people.
I like to keep them guessing of my true motives.
They are my puppets, and I play their strings.
Maybe I should’ve been nicer to my primary school teachers.
Maybe I shouldn’t have opened the fire extinguisher in the library.
Maybe I should’ve been more active in sports.
Maybe I shouldn’t have to explain myself.
I’m sick. I admit it.