How did it feel?
To be chained down to the floor by your foot. To be wearing a bright orange jumpsuit in front of ravenous media crews, all wanting to get a look at just what the headlines told them they’d find. The monster, the villain, the unearthly, out-of-his-mind criminal. A masterful yet decadent portrayal of just the person you were.
And oh, you could be so many people.
The man who’d make idle conversation with store employees / The man who lured and snared / The man who could charm just about anyone in a bar / And slice their throats open, too / The man who claimed himself to be an atheist, and slipped down the path of satanism / Who would turn and face God once more, as the dust settled / And who hung up pictures of men and surrealist art on his walls / With boarded-up windows, and picked-at, chipping paint / The man with a collection of VHS tapes and DVDs of movies and home videos / And yet couldn’t cherish good times, who always wanted a quick fix / The man who couldn’t strike up a conversation to save his life / Yet could so elegantly speak, as though he made the language / But had no friends, not a single connection in such a world, and fled to fantasy / But had so many people throw a good word in for him when the time came.
You were a thousand men in one, because you didn’t know yourself.
A parasitic lifestyle was what came natural, and it’s only an eye for an eye.
The people you met were not people, not because they never were, but because if they were, and you got close enough to touch, they would not turn to gold, no, they’d disintegrate.
The touch of the Devil, whom I have sympathy for, even in this courtroom, was your touch. You were the Devil all along, and I played into your hand as though I was made for it.
But if you knew me, I know you could not do a thing. I would become a human in your mind, a human in your world, and a human in your eyes.
The people you met were people, but if you knew that, you couldn’t jump at their throats, or charm your way into their pants or minds, no, they became objects as you pleased.
A parasitic lifestyle is what you wanted, and maybe you could’ve wanted differently.
You were a thousand men in one, until I knew just who you were.
So how did it feel?
To bleed out on the floor, feeling your heart in tandem with blood pumping out. To have pent-up, insatiable rage enacted on you just as you did on others. Did you think it was poetic justice? Who was more genuine, your corpse or your media appearances? Who will be there when you die? Who do you hope to see? A raw, grisly portrayal of just the man you will be.
And oh, you were nobody, at the end of it all.
Nobody, / Nobody, despite it all / Nobody, in death / Nobody, no matter how much you tried / Nobody, against everything you did / Nobody, in the media / Nobody, as always / Nobody, as it should be / Nobody, and maybe it’s for the better / Nobody, the very thing you feared / Nobody, was it worth it? / Nobody, despite all your satisfaction / Nobody, together with your family / Nobody, even with your lawyers / Nobody, when the time came.