I grow tired.

Day-by-day, hour-by-hour, minute-by-minute.

And with each passing second it is the thought of my hand at your throat which gives me the strength to go forward.

And yet it is my dream to rest. But that will always remain a dream as long as you hold my memories at gun-point, giving only a little taste here and there to keep me thirsty.

But all you are doing is feeding a growing bloodlust.

And with each taste you give, I grow more powerful.

The face you give in public isn't the same face you wear when you are alone. When you are away from the lights and fame, and you know that I know it.

Yet the only proof that I have is one secretive detail locked inside your mind. One missing piece to the puzzle that could set it all off.

And I know that you know that.

So you continue to teeter along a thin red line between a controlled battle and a towering inferno. That one gray area that masks your true intentions. A neutral zone in an impending war without end.

But I grow tired.

Tired of waiting.
Tired of patience.
Tired of the black hole that consumes my mind without respite.

Tired of you.
Tired of you.
Tired of you.
Tired of you.
TIRED OF YOU!!!

And in turn, I will deal to you the very same thing that you have given in kind.

Frustration.
Anger.
Resentment.
Fury.
Rage.
Hatred.

A self-imposed hell that nips at your very will every minute of every day.

It is destiny.

It is inescapable.

It is cold, hard fact.

But my hands are tied. There is nothing Proteus can do about it.

Proteus.

And unfortunately for me, Proteus is the only outlet I have.

Until you name that un-named feeling that has been tearing at me like a rabid dog. Gnashing and ripping like slow death. Waiting to be unleashed from the cage it has been sentenced to.

Proteus.

That is me. For now.

But like you, we both know I wear a different face when I'm alone. And it is that face that scares the witch out of you.

And it is that face that I am left to ponder endlessly as it stares back at me with blank expression.

You are the only one with the ability to help me, yet you dangle that help in front of me like a key to a caged animal.

You have created me.

You have molded me.

You have allowed this primitive version of me. This Proteus. To take hold like a leech while you sit in the background making your little marionette dance as you wish.

But the end is near.

The charade has a vague light at the end of the tunnel, and I am starting to see its pinhole of hope shining through the encompassing darkness like a supernova.

And THAT should scare the hell out you.

Because it scares the hell out of me.

And when that moment of realization happens, that nice little gray area you've danced in for so long will be engulfed in the towering inferno that you've tried ever so dearly to contain.

There is only hatred to fuel us. Hatred to consume us. Hatred to engulf us.

Let us burn together.