i'd like to see you word fuck your way out of this. shock me with bad, 8th grade poetry. show me struggle. shooting pains up your arms. a heart attack headliner. frantic midnight calls, laugh it off. you're an eight-car pile up news-break crying look at me.

be pain. make me believe neglect. feel the word in the back of your throat. spit it out. i'll try to look surprised. 'sell all my things. i'm going to heaven.' we're all conspirators. aren't we? you'll show us. you're not afraid. then hold out your hand and try to keep it from shaking.

show me pain. here's your chance. back up your shot in the dark. your typewriter keystroke. you're my great war. and no this isn't pretentious, it's the only way. besides i don't know how much longer i can plead with this sharp pain in my ribs. put that nice mark at the end of the story about a poor man and his river. cry it for the last time. this is me playing the smallest violin ever.