He liked it better when I wrote stories with a clear storyline

When my language was understandable but yes tricky

thin with a solid bone

He liked it when I wrote in french espanish fuckedupenglish angry clever woman, yes You have the world on a leashhh he said    shhhh

I got annoyed

No excuse for violence, d`accord, but I began to push him just a little harder against the wall, when I came up from behind, when he stood by the fridge. 

He hardly tilted, but I began imagening him tumbling backwards  landing on a sword, the air from his lungs pushed out with a shhhhhh. 

But I did not kill him. I stopped writing. 

I picked his eyeballs out when he was sleeping. 

Put on a corset and broke every wooden thing in the house. Breaking wood gives me a sad wonderful feeling. 

Then I went outside.