writing my novel backwards

i scraped my knee against the pavement, full sprint my shins into a picnic table,
safety like artillery fire.
i was young, it was dusk, and most importantly
i was bored.
boredom creates rage for me, it suffocates movement
--the town was covered in pond scum--
and i felt alive.

i had never planned, at this point, on being a curiosity...
or of being a doormat.
let the squares drive the boats to church, I'VE seen
gleaming the cube AND heathers
and Christian Slater speaks to me,
in my dreams,
and begs me to kill for him.

so that's how i set about becoming the sexiest serial killer who ever lived.
that's how i found out why the witches giggled at Macbeth.
that's why i failed tests on purpose.
it's why i cried all the time.
it's why i still do.
it just is....


the best x-men character is Nightcrawler, because:
1) he is German
2) he is a dashing rogue
3) he farts through time and space.
this night, i'm Kurt Wagner, darting between cars and streetlights,
curfew? pssshhhh...
this bitch invented the Stealth check,
our town clown just making his rounds.

arrival at the treehouse,
and screams, terrified and muffled,
and a smirking thief in the night emerging.


i never fooled myself that those were good days.
i have never believed that days COULD be good.
they only measure out lifespans.
they only sicken me.
they drag on.
even now.