Self-harm had never been an option in his mind, 

Excepting maybe at stressful times during puberty, as most experienced. 

It was not his bag, and the capacity for it did not dwell in him. 

But she, in her vanity, had whispered to the sky that he wanted to die, 

Spreading the idea to all who’d listen. 

Her ego knew no bounds, as if he’d ever had the thought, it would never have been over one so ugly inside. 

At first, he’d thought her simply insane, 

But she kept on with it, reporting him, getting him locked up, 

Wholly inventing the impetus she wanted to see, 

Toying with him to break him down more in his sadness, 

And he had a right to be sad, 

But in her bizarre, psychopathic world, sadness must mean the desire to end it over her. 

And it finally occurred to him, years later, that it was exactly what she wanted,

To both allow her to gloat and seek pity for it, as it was always about her. 

But he would never do her bidding. 

She donned the true face of evil, and she wore it in the open, as it had manifested itself upon her for all to see.