Napalm strike on my allocated heart, igniting the phantom creep of gunpowder pressed across the top of our thoughts.

The full moon explodes in the sky, splintering the cloud I had little desire to rest upon in the first place. Humiliation. Free fall.

In this destruction of trust I am inclined to spit venom doubling as truth; burn the stupid fucking masks they glued to their souls into liquid inadequacy. I am inclined to grow scales.

I am going to do some damage as I heal what they have lacerated.

If revenge is ever righteous, now is the time.