Writing practice. Bathroom Mirror. 5 minutes.

Dirty, grimy, I will lick you clan and brush my tongue and spit the toothpaste froth back at ya never liked how you look like fat lips shiny shimmery skin sheen of tropical unworthy, thinning hair, and eyes, eyes lost to the soul of dead at birth, why are you here, then? Don't you hear the siren sound? Step outside, the birds are back in the trees after the rain. Poor dog left out through the thunderstorm still whining from the pain of neglect. Hate them, hate them neighbours, cruel to dogs and the air and plants. I will unscrew you, bathroom mirror, I will. I will carry you over my shoulder, and greet my neighbor with you smashing kiss on their forehead till they bleed to death on the streets and the garbage truck comes to run them over for good measure. Litter. Thank God.