cigarette smoke.

the dynasties and their prosperities

we'll
crash face
first into
the concrete
so we can
finally feel
the sting
of something
bitter.

(something
that isn't
nausea or
nerves
fraying
sideways―

it kinda
hurts a
little, like
the sting
of vodka
i sipped
when i
was having
a panic attack
on the second
floor at a
purim
party
when i was
a kid.)

can you please burn me? can you set my skin to sulfur so i might touch the stars again? i don't know what it'll feel like to fall into purgatory but i think it'll be something like making sweet coffee & then eating something sweeter with it so it turns bitter. will the moon feel the cold on my hands?

(why am i even thinking this over?
i've got an essay to write on why homework should be optional.
that's kind of counter productive then, isn't it?
a homework assignment on why we shouldn't have homework?)

maybe i'll turn into something GOLDEN like the dots in the sky that i so badly to hold, to take, to become. i wanted to swallow the stars, i wanted to eat the sun. i wanted to  become something awe-inspiring; a demi-god or some kind of messenger angel: holy, horrible. i'll sharpen my teeth to a hilt, i'll burn myself until i turn to gunpowder and sulfur and my hands will shake with the vigor of holding the sun.