i never write about the explosions.  i don't write about the wishes for ricochet.  

they're like demons- the thoughts.  they cling to my chest and press down on my skull cap, like animated gargoyles.  clean, hopeful inspirations seldom escape their barrier.  they surround my potential like a mote.  a bubble of light is created in me and the closest it seems to come to creation is a single breath as it's being crushed into a gnashing jaw or finely pointed talon.  i feel suffocated by their existence.  they suck my life force like incessant vampires.  my neck belongs only to them.

i dream of gun blast.  i fantasize... it's sometimes my only escape... the scenario of looking down the barrel of a gun.  being held up or snuck upon.  threatened with bullets.  my insubordination bringing my demise.  my face fearless into the eye of the cannon.  and the blast that delivers me.  that finally kills the (literal) suckers.  i feel so hopelessly, utterly hopelessly crippled.  like i'm comprised of soap foam.  of smoke.  easy to be sucked and masticated.  sleepy, pressed, hideous and deplorable.

leave bugs.  please, please leave.

and then she looked down over the city.  the rooftop was high and gave ample space.  space through which to fall and feel completely confident that the gap between the top and the bottom, would insure demise.  the people and cars seemed strangely sized.  the forced perspective feeling like just that- forced...  

and she thought of all the wonder that would occur in people's minds... she was pretty!  she was bright!  talented enough and even had money!  why why why?  why would she give it all away?  it would never, not ever, make sense.  not make sense to anyone but her...  

how she never really found a way to figure it all out.  that in the depths of the sickest depression... dreaming of the light... she actually felt safer than she did, with all the things she dreamed of.  how dreaming of the Brightness seemed now, so much more spectacular than Brightness itself.

how she always felt bitten.  sought after with malice and hated.  for no reason but the reasons her body produced, she felt like particles.  vapor.  easily waived about and manipulated.  effortless to destroy and without form.  how she fought every day to feel as though she wasn't dissolving...

broken.  i feel broken almost all of the time.