They call me crazy; I'm not.
Your incompetence just drives me to insanity this time of the month.
The squeak of a desk, the laughter of a child, the sound of someone eating a meal
all make me want to take a nice pointy, sharp knife and swiftly slice through
the epidermis of your skin.
This, all because you have slightly bothered me.
When it is my time of the month
I want the world to stop.
I would love for the moon to crash into the Earth
ending our lives.
I want you to die. I want you to stop talking and
just die. Maybe you'll get hit by a train and hear
the snapping of your ribs,
the delightful crack of your femur,
the smack of your limp body hitting the ground.
I wish you'd fall down a well.
You'd scratch at the walls so desperately to
get out, but it would all be of no use.
You'd gasp for air and you know what I would do?
I'm not always crazy.
I'm only crazy every 28 days.