am i joking, or do i actually want to kill myself?
the train rumbles by on its chitinous legs, cracking and crawling all the way. the rails must be warm underneath it's all consuming friction. the heat would not give it time to stop; spring into its path like a moth drawn to its headlights. become molten, watch your innards spill out and burn on the tracks.
wind, artificial, made by the cars whipping past so quickly their speed can be felt in the deepest part of the body. clatter and sway, focus on the steps that lead into the sidewalk, try to forget about the steps that sing to you from the crawling street.
bridge railings dip beneath the weight of fingers trailing along it, dropping away like a stray cat trying to be pet. so little separates vastness and you, just an agreement that the railing will stand solid and tall. peace can be found at the bottom of a river - just not here, not now.
knives on the cutting board dance far too close to fingers. the lighter is held just a bit too close to the face. dance on the line that separates humour and self destruction. the jokes are better when they are told with your blood in your mouth, the stories more alive when spoken through gritted teeth.