dye. This suppressed fury is hurting me. I don't care if it's hurting you. I don't care. I just want you to stop wringing my hands like they're wisps of yarn in a spinning machine. Only, the dyes are first red, then purple, then, then blue and black. My hands don't look like skin. And you've made me into a helpless kind of child. I want mumma. I want mumma. I miss her. I feel like a liar, because you tell me you're not doing anything. Are you. Are you, are you not? I don't know. Why does this hatred come to you. And why does it come to you only for me? I think I can stop you. We danced together on my birthday. We danced six nights ago too. I think I can stop you from hurting me. Can I ever? Could I ever? Could I?
