If a boy, by the road, ever pleads you to rip the person ahead of you in half, don’t do it. No – It’s not because it’s illegal, or it’s ‘gay’ for the same sex, or it’s disgusting to the humane. Yes – because there is no reason to do so.
For the chance you ever see him, I shall describe it for you: A boy, soporific at a glance, laying silently on the mounds of trash and blight that corrupt at the pores of his skin. As, though he may smile (a product of his desires), he means no harm.
When he ever does ask you, you will most definitely find yourself under the streetlamp alone. He has no parent around. A doll is clutched within his firm grip. Blood oozes out of the doll as defecated organs squirm so to escape. And the bubbles that flow by the river pop into that familiar smell of wafting rusted gear. The tentacles within protrude into vulgar lilacs under its skin, and this bulbous toy vomits in a defecate denial.
So, if you ever rip it apart, I wouldn’t know what else to say. Simply go ahead, peer into his literal heart, the blood oozing out from the boy that squirms so to escape the fleshy prison. Let it protrude into you, bubbles pop into your innards, and knot in what might look like a bulbous glandis. And live in this soporific event as it leaks the squelch and the pain into its body. And… And…
Label it so, as a doll, on strings, hanging by the white glands that sewed it from its demonising form.
–To shorten the story of the label, as there is none, and never should be one, within the heart of the boy, clutching his toy, of the doll and your escape.