I write letters to God and burn them;
the smoke is my prayer.
Each day brings salty cheeks
and a recurring headache,
the circular path of pain
that storms in my head.
Lightning strikes my nerves
and thunder shakes my shell.
The two are cackling twins
guiding me on the path to Hell.
I've led myself here, and they know it.
Fire and smoke are my hope,
burning scrawl is merely history,
and wounds are only moments
that will cease to be.