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Summary
He had his glass flower, a beautiful thing. So rare, yet so delicate. He loved it, cherished it. Whenever he looked at his new glass flower, he had that familiar warmth he would get when he saw his old glass flower. He could never pinpoint the emotion, or whether or not it was negative or positive.
He thought about all the things he could do to the skeleton. He could tear up his clothes, groan as the warmth would make him feel high. He could watch in sadistic pleasure as his flower screamed for him to stop. He could make marks, reminding both him and his genocide on who the glitch truly belonged to. His his his.
He grinned, positive it was.