Loathe

I hate you.

You don't deserve to live. Your undeserving pile of flesh and bones should rot. They need a new Hell for you, you ass hole.

Your eyes should be cut out, gutted, jarred, then stored away for people to know from example what not to become. You're a lying piece of worthlessness, not me. I want to scream in your face, to rip your fucking lips off with a knife, then laugh, you sliver of hopelessness.

I hope your family- I mean the ones blood-related to you, because we're not a fucking family- all drop dead of a heart attack, feeling each little shock of pain and cry out for help, their last breath emanating every form of hurt every imaginable.

I'd like to tear off your fingernails one by one, watch the blood pour down onto the carpet you try so hard to protect and rip your head off, cutting the flesh on your neck bit by bit, little pieces laying on the floor.

I want your ribs cracked, every one of them- each bone in your arms shattered to dust. I want each piece of being you have cut up into tiny pieces and sliced with a knife, all the while you feel it.

Go fuck yourself, like you do every night, you fucking slime ball.