To the nearest extreme.

I wish you a thousand nasty things. I hope you burn and twist in pain. I hope your skin peels away slowly. I hope it hurts. I want you to bow down and scream in anguish. I hope your scream pierces the air to resonate clearly across the sky. I hope no one listens to your cries. I hope you honestly do despair.

I wish you a lot more spiteful things, too profane to pen down here. I hope the blades pierce your body and you scream with every drop of blood that shed like my tears. I hope it hurts. I hope I see it all, and manage to laugh. I wish I could laugh, but it hurts.

The weirdest things

Good angel. Bad angel. It's cool to be evil. You have all the fun. Good always wins in the end. Scale dips this way, and that way. We're back to good angel, bad angel. What will you choose? Dippity dip. What do you want badly enough? Everyone else as a choice too. Good angel. Bad angel. Throw up the dice. Sly.

Which colour you wa-ant??

Too perfect. Sugary sweet. Funny how people thirst for something desperately, knowing that they're not worthy of it. And then, if by some bizarre twist of fate do get them, they forget. How desperate they were. So many ways of ruining things. Let's take this for granted too.

Expecto Patronum. Poof.

Do I dare hope? You press it in a little more, does it hurt? Trickle trickle, black, almost. Someone hits the nail on the head, but she's crazy, she says stuff, who'd actually take her seriously *they roll their eyes and laugh*. But she's still right, I cant laugh, I pretend to look busy so that so one notices that I don't join in. The most observant one catches my eye and I give her a thin smile. My patronus ain't working today.

Coming undone

She watched, fascinated, as the tightly wound plait slowly loosened. The ribbon that had been so firmly holding the strict matron like hairdo together had slowly begun to unfurl. The slender thread was delicate, but had seemed strong enough while tied around the thick clump of her hair. It was strange, watching the hitherto average head of hair to become undone. The strands of hair quietly blew sideways, slipping out of the vice-like hold of the plait one by one. And then suddenly, a gust of wind blew her hair wildly, and with a start she suddenly realised she was undone. Hastily she pulled it back and ran for cover, as the rain began like it sometimes suddenly did.

Swirling around, round and round.

Cynical me finds cynical you. Two mirrors, opposite each other. Endless reflecting, where did it really begin? 24 hours, 1440 minutes, 86400 seconds. 86400 seconds, 1440 minutes, 24 hours, the day. Wind up the alarm clock to fall into slumber that the mind needs, and the body snatches. I paint today, and snip with scissors bits of red and green. Bits of cotton fly in the air, innocent weapons that make it unable to breathe. Cynical me finds another cynical you.