Don’t Underestimate My Intelligence

People underestimate my intelligence. Scratch that. People don’t underestimate my intelligence, men do.

I’m way smarter than I actually seem, and it’s a shame when you underestimate my intellect, my various capabilities. It might surprise you that I’m actually quite aware of your indiscretions and your ability to manipulate certain pieces of myself to make me as weak as I can be, to make me doubt my confidence as you flaunt your pride and childish ego for the sake of bettering yourself.

You see, I’m used to falling for ugly, egotistical, narcisstic, sarcastic assholes, the ones that are insecure about their looks more than they are insecure about who they are and who they present themselves to be. I attract those who need to project their insecurities onto women as if we have the time of day.  Silly, lonely boys, thinking they are the wisest of wise, abusing women until they are like their fathers, convincing themselves that they are everything a woman needs.

Do you think I don’t know what you’re up to? Do you think I haven’t figured out your scheme, this game you praise and revel in? You’d do anything to become the prize. You’d do anything, say anything, to become the king. We’re bodies at your disposal, flesh to be used and abused. You’ll get us with your lies and charm, persuade us that you are the “good guy” and never leave. We’ll excuse reckless behaviors and sarcastic backhanded compliments because we somehow find you alluring through these lines you practice. And you succeed in your ways, telling you we love you, even with your dick and balls in our hands, no matter how small or hairy.

But because you refuse to see my mind, and deny any opinions of my own, you become so blind of my intelligence, underestimate my powers as a woman and of someone who’s quite grotesque in nature.

There’s a blackness inside of my soul, a demon that feeds on deceit and constant manipulation. It scratches my flesh when you grip my throat, it roars when you call me pathetic and weak, it snarls when you name me your pet and make me your slave. My blood boils, my skin heats, and I find myself wanting to dig my nails into your chest and rip out the only dead organ inside of you, damaging vessels and arteries until your thick, cold blood drips down my palm. If I can have your delicious, vile heart in my hands and watch your eyes become pale and soulless, empty at my doing, my life would be complete, the devil would be satisfied.

It’s hungry now, the darkness, I feel it, and it’s becoming more difficult to keep it in. I’ve exhausted myself in not having you in pieces, needing to plan my way out of your fists with your guts in mine.

So as you are reading this now with wide eyes and a disgusted smug on your face, possibly thinking I’m the craziest bitch you’ve ever laid hands on, I have to be honest with you. First of all, that is true. I am the craziest bitch you’ve ever laid hands on. Second of all, you stupid fuck, I left the laptop open on purpose.

I knew you would need a password to my computer which is why I willingly gave you the name of my favorite pet, one I grew up with that was quite vicious to men of your stature.

I knew you would be reading my words and snooping through my opened documents to make sure my writing is to your liking, appropriate, and caters only to you.

I cooked you your favorite meal, poured your favorite whiskey to the top, dressed to impress, a silver satin dress that showed off my curves, with nothing underneath.

Did you notice that a knife was missing when you were cutting up the bloody steak I made for you?

Look behind you, babe.

Where is the knife now?

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