Mood

Oh honey bunches of oats

do not

come for me.

You darling, idiotic thing

I will climb inside you

from that mouth

hellbent on destroying me

and knife

my way

out.

I don’t mind a little

blood.

This could have

all been so easily avoided

but here we are so

twist my arm, sugar

I’ll twist any one

of those precious

organs of yours.

An eye for an eye?

Oh what a funny thing

you are.

An eye for a

slitting of the throat.

A crushing of the lungs.

Up to you, really—

I look forward to your reply.