Je ne fume plus - High Noon

A hundred degrees on my head,
a splitting headache--
Split me down the middle
and set free all the rage,
the grief, the regrets
that crowd around
these screaming neurons.

I've had enough of you,
oh my children...
I wove your boundless bodies,
birthed you, twisted you
so many times around my fingers,
my hands might fall off.
Even if you are my own inventions
I'm sick to death of this:
I wish the best for you,
Can you wish the best for me?
Can we be friends now?

Split me down the middle
empty me of all the
sullen push and pull
I practiced for so long,
I sucked into my lungs,
I swallowed like a whore,
then fill me with
enough joy and will
that I might go on.