The wretched little thing is just so sickeningly sincere. So deluded. So demented. Its fool head so full to overflowing with soporific fairy stories and saccharine romantic fancy. It just won’t stop yapping and mooing and bleating. Endlessly on and on.

Pretending it knows even the first thing about love. It knows nothing, not a thing. It denies the truth, it chooses to forget. It flees from the memories.

It dreams of laughter and smiling lips. It dreams of dancing and singing and shared moments of tender care. It hallucinates bright images in its deluded fever.

It forgets the cruelty. It forgets the brutality. It forgets its grotesque unsightly face pushed into the pillow. To stifle its pathetic whimpering and suffocate its vile forlorn cries. It forgets the violation.

Love is the rod which chastises ruthlessly. It is the severe heart which punishes callously. Love is the bitter venom which slowly murders. It is open wounds. It is scar tissue.

It forgets that love tears and forces and burns. It forgets that it grits its teeth and hisses and sneers hate. It forgets the fist and the greedy clammy hand which takes everything away. It forgets the remorselessness.

I split the wretched things tongue in two, to stop its ceaseless lowing and sighing. And still it persists, whispering its filthy disgusting secrets. Offering its pathetic meaningless declarations.

Perhaps I should tear its tongue out completely, once and for all. Cut out her idiotic words, sew her lips up to silence. Fill her mouth with blood and steel and choke her with her own stupidity.

It’s mine now. It belongs to me. I’ll teach it a lesson it won’t soon forget. I’ll make her sorry she ever spoke.

I’ll show the ugly malformed brainless thing what true love is. I’ll make it cry. I’ll make it bleed. I’ll make it scream.

I’ll remind her.

I’ll show her.

 

Mercy.