(CW: suicidal ideation. And I am ok. Wrote this a decade ago.)

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I want to run my car off a cliff 

into someone else’s skin.

I want to run away as far as I can 

and find a new sin

to pin the pictures in

my mind upon;

I will clean out the closet and

sell all my skeletons.

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Everything must go.

Everything must burn.

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The hammering in my head

has my tongue tied to the steeple.

I cannot stammer out a prayer;

I say fuck and it sounds feeble.

I would crucify again

the creator of all this bullshit,

but as much as I want to spit and

take an army up the beanstalk,

to make a bloody mess of the heavens,

I simply cannot:

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It’s hard enough to wake each day

without a Red Bull and Clonazepam,

and it hurts enough just to live.

I have but one skin

and I cannot find another.

I feel it burning atop my insides

and I’m so sorry if it must go.

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Everything must go.

Everything must burn.

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I am pouring kerosene on

every corner in my mind,

and I do it methodically like an

arsonist bent on escape

or a serial killer trying to

right all the wrongs

in all the wrong ways.

And I know it’s too late

for a fairy tale ending but

at least we’ll get fireworks

and a great big bang.

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I’m sorry if it stains.

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But everything must go.

Everything must burn.