the closeness of the pink sky

i run my finger along the wall and i wish it was sharper. i wish the edges would cut me and then i would be done with it. i would move away, maybe to london and lay my records out on the floor and drink things and smoke things that would shake my head until i am out of everything, screaming across a hollow, foggy bridge in the city where the beggar that sleeps on the street pulls out a knife from his side and shows me how he opens his skin and how it's not blood but the blue ocean that comes out of him and covers over me, all of his bleeding covers over me and he says, "see it's a blue ocean inside of me, a gray, green and blue ocean inside of me."

i can get out of this place, i know it. i will go off to do my chores and pretend that i am fast and that soon i will be thin and ready to crawl into the spaces where the mothers and fathers used to walk hand in hand with their little children. the children knew they were only being brought here to be ruined. their new clothes all wrinkled and spoiled so that they can't wear them to school in the fall. i will crawl back there and rip through it all with the rusty nail that i had pulled from out of one of the walls in my house. then i will be ready, once everything has been torn, my head, heart, hands, once they are all torn, i can leave.