Sanity
Pretty, pretty thing.
The ribbons in your hair are stained with blood.
I'm glad you danced for me, the final dance of death, writhing beneath the water's surface until the light faded from your eyes.
Lovely, lovely thing.
I could yank the pigtails from your scalp, but no more will you scream for me.
Your stiff limbs are cast about at odd angles, a puppet cut from its strings.
I could tear your stuffing out.
The smile I painted on your face washed off, just the faintest trace remains.
I like it better that way.
Perhaps I'll wrap you up and leave you as a present for the bat; perhaps I'll keep you for myself.
I could burn you until your bones turn black, but why ruin your perfect face?
Poor, poor thing!
They're dragging me away.
They'll cut you open and fill you with chemicals, stitch you back up and weep for you.
And they say I'm insane.