‘Dear Mania, don’t call back later’

—- your red light shines through my window. like a steady solipsism. an ache between the thighs. of Ra and his rye. an eye always on me. a brightly colored, burning body and a mind like chalk made of kerosene.

and the car I came home in is still on fire in the driveway.

figuratively speaking, ten different commandments are currently meeting within a holy division. and you don’t have to know their answer in order to feel it. three of hell’s greatest messiahs in a penthouse, waiting for me to strip naked.

every day is just another slow, steady shower alone. a gallon of gasoline gripped in each hand. igniting a way, and away, and away.