Pull the trigger…
Challenge the strength of the three legs of the Easel behind me.
Splatter my brain on the canvass.
Make my foolishness into art. It’s the only thing I am worth right now.
I don’t want this burden - this tightness in my chest, this tension in my tear glands.
The skies are pregnant with clouds that won’t burst. The dams swell to the bursting and don’t give in.
Poke me with a pin, pierce me with a bayonet. End this torture. Shoot me now.