i think 'you hate yourself' and i shake my head or i shake it on the inside and fight every urge not to shake You/fight you/claw at your eyes/your opinions- reason with you.
in there where i am not tight lipped i lift you up (inside my head with the shaking, i am very, very strong and you are a feather) and take you in to a mirrored room, the ceilings, the floor, the walls glaring at you so i forget which you i touch.
i point "see this. this i love. this is beautiful." i say, "in my hands i hold a pot of paint. i will make a mark on each part i am completely taken by, on each bit of you i adore and lust for." i whisper "on each part i would eat, if i could." i pick up the paint brush and draw an x where your heart lies. i pour the paint over your body. the room fills with paint : you are covered completely i can barely find you under all of it, and you can't see because the paint is clogging up your eyeballs and you can't breathe because it is filling up your mouth your lungs. "These are the parts i love." I say but you can not hear me, your ears have filled with the paint and your insides are revolting as the paint intertwines with your blood.