I am a ruiner—one who ruins.

I am called such because it is in my wake that empires turn to ruins.

I am a ruiner—one who ruins.

I held a candy-coated soldier in my rage-stained hands and turned him into a servant of despair.

I tried to tell myself that these things happen—

that people change, that the world makes malice of misfortune, 

that life is big and I am small,

so how could I cause such a terrible fall from grace?

But I am a ruiner—one who ruins.

My rage-stained hands couldn’t long hide their damage.

Honor graced my undeserving fingertips, and fled as lies from my hungering lips.

The husk of an honest man lay at my feet, and away walked a sinner to whom I no longer speak.

I flung love like a weapon, the blackmail of the desperate, and expected grace.

Instead, my declarations turned to desperation, insults hurtled over no man’s land to make impact in the trenches.

I am a ruiner—one who ruins; 

every love I’ve ever known, a victim of vicinity of my volatile identity.

I am a ruiner.

One who ruins.