I refuse to care about your fucking time of your life show
on ITV. It replaces nothing that you have taken from the world, all the burning
shit you’ve shovelled into the ocean still floats there, burning like oil on
the surface.
I sometimes want to strangle you, wrap hands around throat
and squeeze. Not to kill, to scare, to fill you with enough fear that it might kill
you later on. My hands itch right now, scrabbling and scraping to crush windpipe
with their fury.
Now they roll me away as I shout; I scream your name. They
laugh about it later tonight, as your powdered smile winks out from the television
screen. I can see it from the inside of my cell. My fingers scratch lines down
the inside of the walls. Please, let me out, let my rip your face from its
skull and shove it down your throat. It’ll be a relief for us all, honestly.
I will find you soon enough, rip out the walls of this place and disappear into the night. Take you away into the night too. I will eat more and more, gain strength, and then, I’ll come for your face. Our final meal; blood and tearing.
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