I don’t like how much I’d like it.
I’d kill you if I could. I’d watch the life fade from your eyes and I wouldn’t look away. I’d stare into those hollow pools of hate and manic distortion without fear, I’d get in real close and see your surprise turn to anger and desperation. I wouldn’t exhale until you were gone, I’d hold on to every single second of your life slipping away and smile. I’d revel in your agony, I would take pleasure in removing you from the world, in knowing you can’t hurt anyone ever again. It would feel so good, like killing the bad guy or running your nemesis through. My moral high ground assured and your last chances run out.
I would feel no guilt.
You are a poison, you are toxic, you are beyond cruel. You’re a parasite leeching joy and love from all around you. Your manipulation crossed into psychopathy years ago, and as it did you dug your claws deeper into her flesh. Your addiction is who you are. You’re a monster wearing a husk of a man, and even then, it’s only a desperate attempt to seem sane when all you know is madness. Your threats are not veiled, they are obvious. Your web of lies so thick you can’t see how crazy they sound. Are you asking me to be blind?
This parrot is dead, it isn’t fucking sleeping. You’re a creep, not a con-artist. You’re evil, not misunderstood. And I hope you fucking die, painfully.
