Untouched

It is she.

That ethereal perfection,

that sheer innocence; it irks me.

Oh, how it irks me so.

How can it be that such a being exists?

I want to mar that porcelain skin

and see it flower blue-black with poison,

tongue distended,

bulging eyes grotesque.

I want to see the dark pupils of those doe-like eyes

narrow to pinpoints of terror,

like prey in the last second

before it is shredded to ribbons of flesh,

bloody tatters in the wind.

I want to scream into her bleeding ears

that nobody,

nobody

is untouched by the sins of this  world.

Nobody leaves unscarred.

Nobody can be

so infuriatingly pure,

so demure,

so guileless.