so far, plague has blackened my wrists and my legs to the thigh. we're leaning toward the hacksaw. thinned out by 3, this week alone, she's a gustatory dullard

(cheap shot!)

but on thursday, we're checking out the festival to watch fireworks on high. i'll hand her a rusted bolt from some untouched circuit, insisting, more to myself than anyone, that it's the last. and carve trails that persist through dunking my in cold water. sitting on the fence beneath imitation stars.

(listen up!)

a single cosmic ray could strike me hard enough to break skin, and i could roll sixes a hundred times in a row. i've got a short fuse and a hot-blooded flame. sorry, but i'll always be a troublemaker at heart.