The 3 Stages of Self-Destruction.

It’s easy as 1, 2, 3…



I want to take

A rusty pair

Of scissors

From the drawer

In the kitchen

And jaggedly

Cut into these

Chocolate curls

I am so well-known for.


I want to stare

At the bottom

Of a grimy, yellow

Toilet bowl

And vomit

Until my stomach

Is empty

And my throat

Is scraped raw.


I want to strip

Off all of my clothes

And go lie

In the angry

Summer sun,


When I burn

So badly

That my skin peels off,

I will find

Something better


Where Dogs Go To Die.

I kept on begging…

I kept on begging,

“Oh please, will someone–

Anyone at all–

Dig a hole for me

In the backyard earth

Where dogs go to die?”

I wanted that hole

Five feet, one inch deep.

I needed that hole

To swallow me up.

Despite all I’d done,

And how I cried out,

No one  was willing

To dig me that hole.

They said I’d be fine,

That all this would pass,

But shame burned my skin,

And rotted my soul.

So I turned myself

Toward the rising sun;

I read my own rites,

Got out my shovel.

I said no goodbyes,

Just simply walked out,

Took up the shovel,

And dug that motherfucking hole myself.