I keep using my apartment key on my childhood home. As if home was transitive, as if the locks should recognize the same kid they used to know. As if a door could say, oh you, of course I remember you, swinging open.

Maybe my cynicism grows tiring, I imagine it must. I know I wish I could leave my mind, walk out the door and let my vices rip me to shreds. I don't blame you for walking away.

What a beautiful thing, the rainbow after a storm.

Someday you'll look in the mirror and your body won't be a project.

What a beautiful thing, to die in your home, cherished by those who you died saving. What an honor. What a blessing, to have those who will miss you.

They're throwing stones at the house they built for you. You're in the nursery, building cradles as they scream at your door. Leave, golden boy, run to the desert and never look back. Let them burn the city down as you watch your son take his first steps.

I excell at burning bridges, burying bodies, hiding skeletons in the closet. I can't bring myself to kill you. Instead I stand outside your door and smoke, watching the cigarette burn closer and closer to my skin.