I hate you, metaphorically

Metaphorically speaking,

I want you dead.

The same way a phone dies;

to come back fully charged,

and as brand-new as possible

for a fourth generation phone,

in a world full of better off.

Metaphorically speaking,

I want to light your house on fire.

The way you light a jack-o-lantern.

Less about the flames,

and more about the flicker,

and the warmth.

The reassurance that something is in there,

alive and breathing.

Metaphorically speaking,

I want you to fall down a flight of stairs.

Just one flight;

a one-way ticket.

Something to pull the ground out from under your feet.

Something to leave an achy feeling somewhere inside of you,

and the fear of knowing everything that could have gone wrong.

A plane crash with only survivors,

who have learned to never fly again.