I've thought about such a situation

In my medical meditation.

Like who should I be praising for salvation?

I am but a martyr,

Opening the ringing chino store,

Careful to cup the dimes and quarters

Out my bottom garb and onto the counter.

Just enough to reach the quarter of my red container.

I replace the regular sprayer 

And return to my place of prayer.

 

A sharpie

My sword is sharp against the unresponsive walls.

Neanderthals taught me the path to walk,

How to please my god.

 

A shrink will heed the warning to seize the house hold chlorine that sits atop the cleansing machine.

Mommy will leap to said warning.

Now my intestines breath with ease.

 

And the energy extensions will be confined to cabinets, sealed by locks difficult for an apprentice.

A ringed bruise like a necklace

Proof that my larynx is blessed.

 

My mother'll surely divide

The placement of styrofoam and cyanide.

I mustn't cry that the rats are still alive, only that I.

 

The line rides on E

In my parents butter cream

Cedes.

But My gasoline

Has different means.

 

The gold finger rims come to a halt

A couple houses from her home,

A couple lawns from my tomb.

 

Fumes of smoke 

Taint the blue sky,

Rippling as a beacon.

A mother leaves trail,

salty waterfalls.

Bronze skin

Smelting.

 

Tibetan, I am not.

But, a monk?

I am.

A martyr?

I am.

Lay down the mat,

Woven for comfort,

Kneel.

My street wear,

My departing garb,

Present.

Tips drip unleaded.

Her sanctuary.

 

Strike match and set ablaze 

The sacrifice that is one's life.

Relieve yourself.

Undo the pain you've brought about.

Do not scream.

Allow the molten flesh

To manifest into nirvana.

 

You we're my pilgrimage,

My holy water.

With you I felt baptized,

Cleansed of sin.

I scream at your sky

For forgiveness.

 

God opened the door,

And screamed in fear.

An over encumbered god

Followed the flame.