When Michelangelo swung his sword, the steel had caught your eyes, yellow and piercing. Blood percolates from your wings, dark scarlet, angry and molten like soot and spit and ash and dirt.
Your voice, may it touch thousands, and may they hate it as much as I hate yours. May it melt and soak every bone it touches, may they become sick and frail, and may they die like the garden we had grown in April in the February frost.
I refuse to water a dead plant.
Your rain and thunder can stay away from me.