Immortal
When I was younger than I am now I pressed my face into the microwave and turned it on. The plastic door was open so not all of the radioactivity bled into my soul, but enough of it did. Enough to make me godly, and enough to make me not want to be godly. My body decided that it craved death only, like a child who would only eat red food, I was commited. I wanted the void of the noose that was empty, that was gone.
And now I'm being served death on a platter of excellence, on a platter that is me, it's me yelling: I've-waited-for-this-for-so-long-finally. (Finally). I'll go out like I came in to this too-bright world. Quiet, giving nothing away. Except now maybe my face will crack a smile. If being a scapegoat is the only way I can go, so be it. Crank up the electricity until this chair and I both burn. And we do. The chair and I. And I see the chair die, watch as it is sapped away and I'm sitting on the cement and I'm on fire and I'm brutally alive.