I want to burn my house down.
I want to set my house on fire.
I want to stab myself to death with a switch blade.
I go weeks without muttering a word to anyone save the necessary things. there are thoughts like vines
binding me tight
I want to fucking leap from the bridge to
the patch of ice below.
“Hello,” I beam at a stranger.
“Hello,” he says back.
I am polite even in injury.
it’s February 1, 2017 and I am in a black coat,
black hat, black pants,
following twenty feet behind a man,
for about three quarters
mile so far
just for fun.