I wonder if I could kill him.
Crime of passion.
Slice off his face like rubber cement from the table.
Cut out his cruel heart and squash it.
Slit his gizzard and dance in the entrails.
Cut his throat.
In cold blood Is no problem.
My blood is never warm.
Humanity wails and whines,
insisting that it’s not right
to end something that cannot help itself.

The Lord of Temptation lies dead on the floor

I couldn’t help myself