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How I live determines much of how I'll die —like how I build bridges from the ashes I collected when I burned them down
I am known to smile at first times and kill people with my tongue when I leave
I always complain I'm alone but I'm too picky to even stay for a while and I leave just when it gets good
How I live determines much of how I'm going to end —like how I chip at my old self believing it would get me to where I wanted to go
I am known to smile and shut my mouth until the storms build up and I explode in hails of knives to inflict unhealable wounds
I always complain I'm alone but I'm too used to the presence understanding my existence—something nobody but me could do So, darling, how I live and talk determines much of how I'm going to die and end —that's quite possibly— discarded, forgotten and alone
