tell me,
if i tear my way out of this skin —
bash it, cut it all open
until all that's left
is a hollow beneath
a veiled sculpture,
if i peel these wound scabs raw
and adorn them with buttercups:
an offering to the god of death,
if i scratch on these wrists
hard enough,
long enough,

deep enough, they won't heal,
creating an outlet —
a crevice, nonetheless,
tell me,
can i finally escape myself?

can i finally escape myself?