Go ahead and call me out, take me down, pin me to the carpet for all to look down on, and I'll smile. I'll smile with fangs and an evil intent, and that'll be that. You'll have gotten your wish - I'll be devoid of all emotions, I'll have given up all attempts at giving, and I'll turn to stone. It's all you need - for me to be even colder and less caring than I've ever been before, and it's already a well known rumor that where my heart should be, there's a hole. Go ahead - call me out.
Make me the epitome of all that shocks and disgusts, and do it with a grim 'for-the-better' visage. I'm all too familiar with your brand of concern - I call it 'persecution'. Tie my hands behind my back and toss me in the river for a trial. There's only guilt to be gathered from where you stand, and I can't show you innocence. So go on - flog me like the well-chosen scapegoat I am.
And when I'm back to being your favorite Southern arctic bitch, you can smile and vaguely wonder what might have changed. I won't tell you that - I won't tell you anything then, except with an icy contempt that shows how little this life was worth it. So shrug and glance away, just happy that I'm no longer the same - never mind that the change wasn't for the better. I'm down on the carpet, pinned for everyone to look down on, and you can see my fangs with my smile. (Hey, why should I bother to give a care for my damnation?)
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