I hate you. And you, and you, and you. And you. I hate how your hair is set perfectly still, all ebony and lead straight. No. Not as wiry as a barbed fence that’s meant to keep things out. And don’t you dare grin, don’t you dare part those cracked and parched lips. Only to show how happy and contented you think you are, because we both know you’re not. Because you’re a fraud. Because deep inside all you really want is to be accepted. To belong.
And you with the large green eyes and the caked face. The baker is sending his regards. Oh! And he told me to tell you… He needs his flour back.