I’m not a bad person. Really, I’m not. It’s just a… habit. An addiction really. I just can’t stop taking what isn’t mine. And it’s harmless really. As a child I used to take rakes from my neighbours lawns when they scolded me for playing too loudly or kicking a ball into their garden. Who knows why I did it. I think it was my way of bringing people down somehow. Of having power over the adults, even if it was just knowing where their garden rakes had gone. And then when I was older I still used theft as a means of retribution when I felt wronged. Only now the stakes were higher. That plant on your front porch. A keychain from the bowl on the table by the front door. Your television, or perhaps something more personal. Jewellery? Photographs? I will hesitate at nothing if you hurt me. I don’t mean to be this way. It’s as if a red mist descends over me and I can’t control myself. The need to fix my feelings and take from the one who has dismantled my pride sits inside of me like a lion at the mouth of a cave. Sitting out of sight, and yet ready to pounce.