A Promise.

I am made of flesh and blood. Making myself into metaphors is only hurting me in the end, maybe that's why I do it. Who f*****g cares.

Maybe my body is a temple, but I'm the one who's forced to live in it.
 I'll dress it up for you: I'll hang things on the walls and I'll paint a new coat every time it chips. I'll memorize every edge and every dark space; I'll never forget the hour when the sun makes everything golden.
 I'll also dress it down for you: I'll tear every single picture off the walls and I'll break every mirror until the entire floor is covered in stained glass. I'll board up the windows so not even a ray of sunlight will get in. Most of all, I'll leave nothing behind when I go - not even a note.
They will sing songs about my body. They will tell stories and write endless obituaries for who they thought I was. They will declare me a God even though what I will do is so selfish.
 I'll be the only thing left standing in the end and I'll tear myself down for fun, it will be the only good thing I'll ever do to myself. I'll kill myself in a way that seems so intimate; it will be hard to hear and hard to tell, that's what makes it so good.
My body is a building on fire and I'm so tired of being stuck in the one thing I hate the most.
I'm going to destroy myself.