He screamed in my face and ran down the steep, low staircase when I talked of you, we were hissing. Now, imagine lizards tounges swirling around an infected wound at the back of my hands. Six words, I counted on the fifth when he squinted in confusion and I got scared when he put his hands over his shoulder. I felt as if it was a minefield (when it never was) and honestly, I'm only interested with what I tore down.
A figure blown to bits. Isn't it so very pretty to see someone crumbles into depths of despair? Lovely misery, lovely lovely mess. Lovely a little girl running a circle around. Don't you get it, at all? The contentness that comes out of seeing her fall like dominos, witness.
Twist the fucking knife, please, so we could guess the colour of her blood. Don't you ever
dreamt of shredding her frilly bones and lace them with kerosene and burn one another. I've heard there are ways to warm a fucking cold heart. I fucking know.
Listen now, your knuckles aren't supposed to be white, if it's painted, you're caught.
Flesh are places to bury angry bullets and tucking souls into -less.
Human lives are just that worthless.
Kill, kill.
