A twist of a rope to its final path.

Of course I don’t have any feelings for you. Of course I do not. The way you treat her, the way you treat your children and the way you treat our own mother. Just by looking at your torturous eyes, you think you can redeem yourself – your power, your status, your standing. The tolling violent shaking with your own bare hands, trying to punish me, grabbing me by the collar and twisting my cartilidge like an ancient rope, like a newspaper – with each piece strewn away in between your fingers.

The cold glare I give, while you shake me about like a maraca, I imagine my reflected tool through your beating organ, each drop of blood full of hatred and anger. I imagine pushing you down the stairs, the twist of a neck, the bobbing head down to its final path. I imagine slamming you down onto the cold white washed tiles, staining it with the dark crimson of sins.

Why should I give a fuck about you, for all you do is to betray our family with your sins.

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