You might think I hate you and make no mistake,
the very air that you breathe is an offence to my existence.
It makes my head scream.
my fists are pounding against the brick wall that is my forehead
beating back the impulses that drive me to blank rage.
percussive, concussive, all day it bangs and throbs, and my conscience is tired,
delirious, and exhausted, it settles, still standing, eyes closed against the wall and
whispers lacklustre defences, the constant refrain,
silently wishing I’d take the initiative and ram this meat
fork into your balls, twist and tear until you can’t scream any longer and jitter and dance
to the rhythm of the falling blood
leave you to bleed out on the floor with my spit drying in your eyes and
smiling as your life ebbs away slowly and painfully, crying your woes to your non existent God
and laugh and titter and tell you the truth that there is no God and you are in Hell.
you die with no on your lips…