Thinking of You

I have the same re-occuring thought. An ugly, wonderful thing. It pleases me in a black place inside. To think this way is not unusual but seems to be because most refuse to admit how dark their shadows are. My awful heart enjoys the idea, the possibility of harm, more than you would care to admit. I guess because you know me. Do you?
I know that I am not an imposing figure, however, malice lends strength. Destruction of form is beautiful and in it's malignancy gives even a wee lass power.
I keep imagining what it would feel like to smash my fist into your face, watch your teeth split your lips and see rivulets of blood run down your chin dripping slowly unto your chest. I would look down at the broken skin of my knuckles and smile. I would look at your shocked, ruined face and I would laugh. It would be a soulless, gleeful laugh. Vengance for an imagined crime. You have done nothing, but to lash out and ruin skin? Ah, what joy. A strike for the sake of striking. Seeing your confusion, your utter confusion is what dreams are made of. Sweeter than any nightmare I could ever have. These are the images of my waking sleep.