‘knife sharpening business’ the day I kill the faggot inside my brain is the day that angels will sing carried on my grandmother’s wings i have been flirting with the idea for a while imagine me tying him to a chair choosing a weapon and seeing the twinkle in his eye die as i numb him with a punch in the temple maybe then i could put his limp faggot body through a meat grinder turn him into a crimson pulp and use it as a fertiliser for a ground on which temples of infinity are built couples are wed and dogs are raised i will look at my own hands stained crimson red from all this faggot fertiliser residue i will touch my skin, leaving bloody streaks wash myself in red draw circles on my chest, where the heart is soak this faggot in