the EIGHTH of NOVEMBER, TWO THOUSAND and TWENTY.

i wish i had a gun. i ache for the heavy burden of it's barrel resting on my tongue.
i yearn to carress the very thing that will blow my wretched mind away.
to hesitate and stall until i grip the trigger with defiance, with no regrets.
except for the regret that i didn't do it sooner. the regret that lay, embedded in my soul,
the weight on my tongue no match for the weight on my heart of the years of cowardice.
to splatter years and years of torture against the ceramic ivory of the bathroom tile,
suffering that wont shift from the little lines of grout. permanent, no matter how hard they scrub.
the destruction of corruption in vengeance of the demolition of my innocence. revenge. that's it.
my shattered skull will be sanctified, cleansed. empty at last. i am my own god.

take me back!