Internalised misogyny

I'm writing this letter because I met someone. A boy. I had already met him other nights. I had seen him drinking and laughing with his friend, I had watched him dance and kiss other women. And I had wanted to poison their glasses of sparkling wine, which made them forget all limits; it gave them a blush on their cheeks that showed under the layer of falsehood that covered and melted them, ruining their imitation of beauty; it ruffled their hair from the heat emanating from their heads, and with the already excessive quantity of perfume it mixed the humidity of their hormones; it inflated their abdomens, taking away the shameless elegance that the revealing dresses gave them; and their layers of skin grew shinier with sweat, and their whole bodies swayed with every movement, like grazing animals swatting away flies, but flies are exactly attracted to this vulgarity. This thought rang in my head: they should abstain from vices and find pleasure in the singularity of experiences, satisfaction in the rarity of concessions. Rediscover the lost candor to reach love, and give meaning to their existence. Excessive knowledge risks corrupting them. And when one is stained it's not hard to notice. It is also perceived only by the lack of respect they emanate. Empty of values but full of ideas and audacity. However, I immediately rejected that toxic desire, for fear that the poison left on their lips could endanger him.