Is it wrong?
That the only thing I want for my birthday is either
1) a loaded gun or
2) to BE as loaded as the gun mentioned above?

But maybe there is a third, less fatal option.

To slowly, deeply,
Slice tiny rivers into flesh.
In an effort not to conceal the pain in me,
Rather to transform it.
With a feeling so physical,
So visceral, it won't be ignored.

I think about these things in reverse succession.

First the blood, seeping out of my veins, Messying everything,
Yet making tidy my brain.

Then the blood. A shooting star. A plume rushing in, and then pushed back into its place.

And finally.
So finally.
The one deed that can end all the others before they begin.
Saving me the shame of acting as either a foolish schoolgirl, or a selfish ***** Only thinking of this moment.
And how best to stuff the screams back into myself.