The Product of My Anguish

I want to bend my wrist back as far as possible and stick a hot poker down the center of my forearm. I want to wrap my hands around my neck and squeeze until my lungs burn. I want to take a razor sharp shovel and thrust it through my chest, scooping out the pitfall that is taking over every bit of my being. I want to bite off each of my fingers at the knuckle. I want to crush the arch of my foot with a hammer. I want to twist my leg so far back that it pops out of the socket and tries to take the flesh with it. And I don’t want anyone else to know or else they might try to stop me. Then they would blame themselves for not stopping me, or worse yet, they wouldn’t.