There's a part in my heart,

a little, tiny, minuscule part that knows

people as pathetic as you

should rehabilitate,

contemplate,

abdicate your throne of entitled reputation.

You should.

With any hope in this world, you will.

I don't hope you burn in hell.

I want to watch you fall like a single, silent star

from your respectable constellation.

I want you to live as you are

and slowly, your irrevocable journey of hate,

and take and take and take,

I hope for no reprieve,

that you cling to your flimsy beliefs

and that a hundred teenager girls gather as an army

to the hatred of you.

I want you to live indoors, shackled by guilt.

I want rage to twist your smarmy face,

and for people to say;

"There goes the screw-up."

I hope you become healthy and old

and addled by your putrid goals,

and that the world passes on without a doubt to

How insignificant you are,

How unlovable you are,

And you die like that.

And if not,

I hope your phallus falls off.

It seems like a fitting punishment.

I do not think I know how to write anymore.

There was a time it was bobbing towards me in a sea of such vastness and mystery, like a pure sunbeam, untouched by the cold. Like the sun, it lifted me closer to the sky, sought colour within the squeeze of lemon-rain. In the night, it sunk below my feet, through my body and into my heart, and beat and beat and beat.

I do not feel it now. It floats a little, it dangles, it crashes over and dissolves into white specks that travel through me, upwards and upwards, lighting the dark, dissolving in daylight. It is a specimen, a sample, an infinitesimal bite of creamy and tart toffee, a bare sip of 7-Up's latest lemon-and-lime summertime invention. It comes back in a mortar, smeared on the table, crumbled in school essays and writing comprehensions and debates and the next big thing that will destroy me.

I do not doubt it will stay so, because I have learned to swim, and I do not create without the imminent threat of sinking. I have dipped my toes into the heart of the ocean and felt the beating there, into my chest, beat and beat and beat. The hundreds walk and follow. When I sink, I will, the ocean will open its maw and and crack my bones, and split my jaw, and let pieces rest. And then I will explode, upwards and upwards.

There was a time it was bobbing towards me in a sea of such vastness and mystery, like a pure sunbeam, untouched by the cold. It sunk below my feet, through my body and into my heart, and beat and beat and beat.

I hear the news reporter breathe behind the brick walls, I listen.

Let every builder know that the house has not tumbled down and thus;

I can live here; can do everything except, perhaps, leave.

There are doors to every birdcage; I see the dents in brick walls like

the trunks of trees. No storm nor season has entered on me yet;

cold simply permeates the cliffside over time.

I am no more a person than a heartbeat. I let fall the future breakage.

The cement lays steady and crumbles to the future. I let society age and age and

Protect myself in my wretched bedroom.

Childhood has given you gifts; loneliness and art. To neglect them is to neglect a call.

Do not heed the sturdiness of walls; that which crash and burn

and are the very evidence of your careful foundations.

The Trojans trick you. The Greeks were good at arts and crafts,

And built a mirror; knew the mighty are terrified of their power,

The bold and brash build a wall; empires fall.

Only art remains preserved.