I lit fires, and scorch dinner plates
with acid; because I couldn't afford anger
or pay for my despair. I smash plates
against photographic walls and
wedge shards of porcelain angst
into my medicated intervals, bleeding
it open for the monsters. The air glitches

and pulses, through my nostrils and up
through the hole in my head. The hole
that wasn't there yesterday. I couldn't
eat, only inject vanilla into my bloodstream
and drown in screaming machinery. Last week
I skinned myself alive - that was before, exhaustion

burrowed into my heart, spreading to my fingertips,
It became malignant, and masturbated
itself to death. Hit me, with everything you've
got, burn me to the ground and eclipse my
sanity into itself. And there's that smell again,
the smell of vanilla and rust, that wouldn't go away.