I hate you.
The stench of your lunch
nauseates me.
I want to break your pencils,
crush your delicate models.
Let me burn your dainty clothes.
Let me near you! I’ll slash your glossy hair.
Such fragile bones.
Petite frame.
I need to lift you,
swing you,
smash you against a wall,
leave your pieces dying on the carpet.
Oh shit! I’d better sweep you up,
reassemble you,
stand you up,
hold you up,
touch
your small smooth body.
I’d better brush out your tangles,
dress you prettily,
make you new toys,
draw your portrait.
Let me feed you
what you like best.
I love you.