Sometimes I get so hungry I eat things that make my tongue go numb so I can't taste anything for days. The metaphorical context behind that is overwhelming. I carved a three in my leg, and the pooled on the ground in two connecting pools at the bottom of my feet. I held my finger to the ground days later and felt their a hot anger. My identity still seethes from the caked and cleaned spot in the earth where I spilt my anger. It burns and builds, as the flames up the paper you didn't want anyone else to read. A little secret, a kindof vendetta against the world. As though burning paper could tell the entire world the importance of being you. Only you are the only one who sees it burn. Your identity concealed with a box of matches in the backyard. I met a once, on a bus. She and I exchanged coffee colored glances and fiery white flashes of teeth. only to leave it at that. Its so easy to pick a fight with a man, so hard to even touch a schedule. I can part flesh in a flash, why not time? Am I truly as useless, as insignificant, as I think I am? Because even flying just aint what it used to be.