In my hand,
Hovers a small glass orb.
A perfect sphere, besmirched by no grime,
Dirtied by no greasy fingers.
It was perfect, so clear.
I think it gave off a very faint hum.

Trapping the orb in my filthy grasp,
I inspected it,
Pawing it roughly,
Streaking it with filth from my hands,
The hum stopped.

A miniscule script darts across the orb’s surface,
Though small, it clearly tells me,
In my hands,
I hold your heart.

My eyes light up with a wicked glee,
The pleasure that a little boy has with torturing bugs.
A smirk slips across my lips,
And I toss that perfect sphere into the air.

Suspended in time, falling so very slowly,
I reach forward angrily,
Palm driving into the ground,
And then, I stop it,
Somehow.

A sadistic delight thrums through me,
And my fingertips tingle with anticipation.
Slowly, I bring my fingers into themselves,
Crushing that perfect glass sphere in my hands,
Palms, fingers, wrists,
Streaked in the blood of your pain.

 
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