Or maybe I want to wrap my tongue in molten gold, infusing my words with fine-grain magic dust and rainbow truth arrows and unicorn hair paintbrushes. And I could tease my hair high atop the mountains and plant my flag in the chocolate pudding blizzard. I could stake a claim to the throne of orgasmic expansion while offering my song to the ears of the wolf.
Or maybe I'll just bite my finger and furl my brow into a catacomb of flickering torches, lighting fork after fork into deep sleeping spells, swallowing knots and burying treasures. I could cringe and bear the cross, shrinking into a silent movie, black and white with a simple story and a quick end. I could close the door and draw the blinds, squinting so I don't have to look, choking down the last supper, covering my ears and screaming snakes.
Maybe I want to stab my leg and taste my tears while I cradle my stories, burning the pages and humming the tunes. I can fly to the moon on my broken tricycle. I can bounce in a hot pink princess dress on a holy trampoline. I can paint a masterpiece with the blood of failure and the sweat of a close escape. I can conceive a Messiah from the rape of a frozen deer. And maybe I will. Maybe I have.