You're nothing, Special.

Our father, who art in heaven,
hallowed be thy name,
hollow be thy promises
and shallow be thy shame.
Thy kingdom come.
Thy will be done
on earth as it is in heaven.
On a scale of one to ten,
our Lord is totally eleven.
Give us this day our daily bread,
toasted close to dawn,
and forgive us our trespasses
as we shoot those who trespass on our lawn,
and lead us not into temptation,
such as *** or *****,
but deliver us from evil
(if not delivery, then DiGiorno).

Cremate me, please
and sprinkle my ashes,

                    pinch by pinch
.                               on strippers' eyelashes.

I'll love you until I'm dead on the outside.
I'll give you every one of my mortal seconds.
I'll never leave your side.
I'll die holding your hand.
But after that, I want some "me time."

I want to beat you to death with a blunt object.

I want to grab one of those high-end fashion mannequins by the ankles and bash your ribcage in.

I want to sharpen fifty pencils, bind them with a rubber band, stick the lead ends in your mouth, and punch the erasers.

I want to strap you to a bed of nails and then strap that bed of nails to the hood of my car so I can watch you suffer as we drive over speed bumps in a mall parking lot during an earthquake.

I want to burn your dog in front of you, mix his ashes with gunpowder, melt his bone-shaped name tag into a small metal ball, load it all into a musket, and shoot you in the face with him.

I want you to somehow survive a terrible car crash and then somehow not survive a small fender ****** on the way back from the hospital.

Her eyes were like fire.
They weren't red or anything.
Not particularly warm, either.
They didn't glow or "appear to glow,"
whatever that means.

But they had that same strange blend of
familiar and miraculous---
and they were always nice to look at
after a long day of doing things.

There goes someone.
                                    Here goes nothing.