I found a piece of broken glass on the concrete where I pressed my cigarette into the ground and resisted the urge to test its edges.
I rediscovered my needle kit last night and opened it, hands itching for violence and skin too afraid to feel.
I had this crazy thought that maybe we could fall in love and not burn the world down.
There is an itch that won’t scratch, and I’m clawing at the insides of my skin for satiation.
I licked my fingers and they taste like ash and whiskey. My eyes are liquid and heavy with want.
Come kiss me recklessly. Give me that look from across the room that tells me you’ve got a bad idea brewing. Do I want in?
Boredom is a dangerous landscape for dancing, and I am made of movement.
I am ravenous, selfish, insatiable. Drown me so that I never take for granted the pleasure of breathing. If I forget, drown me again.
The air is lightening. Autumn is coming. The wind around me tastes like smoke; it’s no wonder my skin tastes like ash. The world is burning and the leaves will start to take notice soon. I don’t want to be left behind, even when it leads to my own demise.
Oh, but I am ravenous and sitting in calm composure. I’m pushing against nothing and growling in frustration. Give me stone to cut my palms against.
I wonder what would happen if I ever decided breathe deeply without the burn of a cigarette lighting the way.
I wonder what my skin tastes like on someone else’s tongue. Does it hold the same sulfuric residue that I always seem to catch?
The world feels desperate today. I have forgotten how beautiful I look broken; I want to crash into something that will shatter me.
Reckless. My self-preservation is deteriorating. Say anything. Say everything. What is there to be afraid of? The world is crumbling into flammable scraps begging to be burned.
I had this crazy thought that my skin might not combust unless I keep it under pressure. It’s the moment of decision, whether to tap or let the pressure take me under.
It’s a precipice, and my balance is wavering. It’s the edge of chill that heightens sensations. It’s the whirlwind of leaves and the scent of something unfinished begging for release.
I had this crazy thought that autumn might come quietly.
And when I woke, I remembered that every crazy thought is just a dream based on desperate hope.