With eyes that slice up everything they see and a scowl fit to rival that of the gods we’ve so often displeased, your face is made to be glared at. A sharp, pointy voice that flares up without a moment’s notice, skewering anyone bold enough to listen. I reach and I reach and I reach but that warm, pale, soft skin of yours, it was not ever meant to be touched. You wouldn’t, you simply couldn’t allow it. Still, I can’t help the trickling of an illicit smile unto my own face, mild and unfazed, every time I think your name. I want to paint your imperfections onto the sky for the world to see, so that I may keep what’s pure and good and you for myself. But that which I wish to keep, it is not you, not wholly. Your flair for malice is all too bright, and blinds those who don’t stop to see. You’re terribly easy to hate, you know. And yet, you’ve quietly, imagine, quietly, ensnared this small, quaint piece of me.