Kicking kittens is probably the best thing to ever happen to me.
Pull back. Release. And the rage is gone.
Destroy the innocent.
I fall to the ground and the grass stains my jeans.
I think for a few moments about strippers and how I’m never on time.
I realize that I can’t speak. There is no defense.
And my mind is weak.

Going home to pour myself a pot of coffee.
And do my hair all up with a can of hairspray.
It still doesn’t look as good as yours.
I smoke a pack and forget- that I seek to destroy.
I dress myself in plaid, and fall down the staircase.
I’m up and I’m a lush.

Blinds cover my eyes, and I’m really only hiding from myself.

I draw pretty zombies in pencil.
And ramble on the phone for hours.
I just don’t want to be alone.
My art history book makes good fire.
And I don’t want to get out anyways.
I’m a bit of a pyro and I will die happy.
Up. In. Flames.