Dead childhood

I stack them up in a pile.
Cube by cube, their colours don't match;
Flaring red and pale lavander.
Scratched edges and worn out paint.
I stare at the remaints.
Are these all that are left?
Yes, you answer cautiously.

Momma... bring me cube! Gee-raff!

I stroke the pitiful toys with a slender finger.
It's bright red, and stains the wooden white block.
I draw a symbol randomly and puncture it with my claws.
The floor is maroon, warm and... pulsing.
The whole room is covered with the blood of my childhood.
I leave it there, whimpering as every tiny vial of life is sucked out.
Nothing is spared as I fling them carelessly away.

No survivors.
Though in my blood lust, I hoped there was just one strand of innocence that was alive.
No, impossible.
Because this is what it takes to mature.

Kill them, all.