I feel the blood on my hands and begin to grin. It wasn’t enough to slice your arm. I begin to wonder how it would feel if I cut the skin off your face, to see what’s beneath the masque of all your lies.
You watch me day and night. How would it feel if I began to poke at your eyes with a burnt needle? I only want to see the blood in your eyes, flowing from your pupils. They told me I could do it. I feel the urge to rip out your fingernails one by one just to see the look on your face. Maybe I could nail your hands and feet to a hard pointy surface. Maybe I could lie you flat on a bed of nails and slowly put weight on you pound by pound, watching the nails rip through your skin until finally they surface on the other side. You call me names? I want to pull your tongue out as far as it will go and staple it to a table, and slowly cut it off with a butterknife. Then chop it up in little pieces and shove them down your throat. They scream at me to do it. Maybe I should listen.