Come away with me...

I thought of many morbid ways to kill Pooh, to satiate my long days and teary nights waiting... waiting to lose myself just plunging a knife into his gut and devour the pleasure of seeing his stuffed self lacerated into pieces. I thought of drowning him into a basin and brushing his smile against our week-long-not-scrubbed floor. To kill Pooh, it is the closest thing for me to hurting the person behind Pooh's existence --- of how he came to be, how he came known to my heart, and how he ended up in my closet. I hate Pooh, for the memories, for the the feeling of nostalgia, for memento's sake, for the phantom that is, that I thought was real, that I thought was good, and the greatest thing that happened to me in a long time. Pooh, a poop on my head.