Laugh a little harder. I can't hear anyone. I want to hear those fucking little carp-laughs. Evade faces. Creep a bell into the closet but there is no one to ring the damn thing, no one is willing to kill it. Sell the properties over to someone who will be dumb enough to buy them, it's full of cockroaches and worms ready to crawl. In a chuckle. The bugs come toward me, I think they are marching, they know what they are doing, they have radar contacting each other, they plan together. I shake them off of me, don't let them near my hair. They would eat my brain.

 

        I vision myself running. Running as fast as I can go, never stopping.

 

        Give me a hook and I'll jab it through my neck. Hoping to expose my voice box, raw, bleeding, I'd let the blood run down my chest to announce what I'd done. Letting it stain. Up the skin, away, allowing whatever is in there to feel the wind. It would feel so good. I would probably die doing it; at least I'd die having the last word.

 

        I went through every possession I owned, striking my name off of everything that bared it. Teacher told me to put name on everything handed out to me, and also on my forehead so teacher wouldn't have to remember. Put name on it the minute you get it, or else eternal embarrassment for all to witness. Now, we don't want that, now do we.