What would wickedness look like, if it were tangible? If you could touch it- even if only to throw it in the garbage bin- how would it feel?
It could be sharp: hundreds of knives cutting, wounding, slicing their way through everything to wreak destruction.
It could be smooth: silky, luscious, seducing its way in before wending its way into every crevice, ready to rip with dark, sexy claws.
It would be black, it would be green, it would be red. It would scream, it would whisper, it would whine. Wickedness would start small, it would grow like a fungus, it would be all-encompassing, blocking the light.
What if that isn’t- always, ever, sometimes- what wickedness is? What if wickedness could look just like you? Just like me? Coarse, grey, conversational, middle of the road evil.
That would be the worst kind of all.