Acidic Art

Willing Predator.

I was a walking target to you and your hollowed eyes that burned through walls.

Years, literal years of trying to hide from eyes that always seemed to be super-glued to my body; undressing me with your eyes and you didn't even bother to hide it after awhile because when I thought we were just close friends, you took it as me giving you the wrong kind of attention and you liked it way too much and took advantage of your place (the place I gave you) as my boy best friend anyway; anything to get closer to me in any way you possibly could.

You made me feel like I could tell you anything, because you weren't shy about your own monstrosity of a past that you wore on your sleeves and screamed from any rooftop so that others had no choice to listen.

So I did.

I told you about my own past. Things I'm not proud of. Things I shouldn't have trusted you with. Things that you found attractive, which is so fucked up.

I told you my past, and you chose to glorify my sins like they were fucking trophies meant to be put on display. You even started to treat me as my own display case for you to stare at whenever you so pleased.

And when you looked at me, you saw the shadow of who I used to be and fell in love with it. I may as well have been Peter Pan. You may as well have been that less than innocent kid who followed his shadow into Neverland where kids didn't grow up. Fitting, as you seem to have never grown up either.

You were attracted to the me I used to be. The me I chose to kill. You even tried to revive her. Sending me pictures of your seductive and suggestive faces that made me want to vomit in my mouth over and over again. "Clean" pictures with captions that shattered any boundaries I thought were set in stone. But boundaries apparently don't exist with someone on the Autism spectrum, so you say. Blame it on your disability, but you're medically super high-functioning to the point where it's barely even fucking there. I don't care what you dramatize it to be. I'm not fucking blind.

But that excuse worked for you. You could play with whoever you wanted. No matter how young they were, because of your disability that caused you to throw away any filter you would have had without it. The people who came to leadership, were silenced because men's words are apparently more taken then any woman's, and eventually had to fucking LEAVE. They had to leave a ministry they were literally called to for somewhere else of similar ministry so they could escape you.

But it's funny because you never speak in public settings unless you're praying. I'm sorry. Correction. Praying on the microphone specifically. I've never seen you lead a prayer time in any other way. If it's less than 20 people in the room, you don't even open your mouth and blame it on the fact that you're tired. Yet you pride yourself in staying up at any hour to be a part of a prayer burn. You used to publicly pray about getting past tiredness and for supernatural energy but you're a damn hypocrite, you know that?

Slipping things out of your mouth you shouldn't have. Flirting with anyone who would give you any sort of attention. You don't even have a type, unless your type is younger women. Flirting with under-aged girls even, pretending you didn't know their age, but you did. You fucking did.

After what you started to put me through, I started noticing patterns that are less than tasteful. They just kept getting younger too.

22. Me, and others. 21. 20. 19...18...barely 18...17. SEVEN-FUCKING-TEEN. WHEN YOU WERE TWENTY-FUCKING-THREE.

I don't care if you have "Christian" values, that's fucking scary.

I was entirely too scared for the next few younger ones that came into our place. When the new flock came in, they were all over the place in age, but you flocked to the youngest ones. In fact, you didn't talk to the ones older than 20 at all. 17, 17, and 18, were the ones you were the most fond of. AND YOU WERE 24.