I’ve always thought I’d go out with a bang,
an instant explosion of glitter and broken bones,
vengeful gun against my powdered temple,
collision of lust and late night rage.

I’ve always thought I’d die in a car crash,
a crépe paper crunch through a red light,
tragic newscast so unknown mothers cry,
one less car to choke up the Ring Road.

I’ve always thought I’d end differently to everyone else.
the only known case of waltzing into a stampede,
cartwheeling into an unmapped volcano,
asphyxiation by worn out typewriter ribbon.

And if I could see my life dragging out,
lacking the promise of martyrdom fame,
I guess I’d just have to take care of myself,
with a love note, a rope and a stool.