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Days pass like bullets
from an assassin's rifle
and zip past my head...
I must've put a bounty
on my own life
some night when I was drunk
and praying to Death
as if he were a god —
But when I'm sober
I refuse to believe in him
because the whole idea of mortality
is just too glamorous
to be real,
because there have been days
that have pierced my skull
without exit
and brought me to my knees
while the warmth of everything I am bled out
onto the cold cement of my existence...
And because somehow, I’d always wake up
after every kill
to the sound of birds singing outside my window.
Then, in those small perfect moments
I’d ask myself
“is this heaven?”