You make me sick to my stomach
with dozens of butterflies flapping out you name in morse code.
I want to wrap my hands around your insecurities,
strangling them from the neck down.
I wish to ****** your sadness and bury it six feet under with a shovel.
No eulogy.

Sometimes I can see your fears dying in a tub
where I have placed a hair dryer in the water.
I want to see your worst nightmare standing in a pool of blood
because I have shot it down from your mind.
I can hear you misery gasping for air from a lack of your sufferings reaching its lungs.
I want to see the spine of your burdens crack under the weight of your happiness.

You make me a violent person and that's not healthy I suppose,
but lucky for you,
*I was always a sick child.