Five

Vicious, grimace, critically ill, and different.

This is a division of definitions they say I fit in.

Benefits include getting hit and spit at by these 'critics'

with instant intimidation like a nation preyed by Britain.

I'm an outcast. I get it! I don't win any women

but I don't see most of you getting intimate and bitch-ridden.

Just because I don't live religiously doesn't make me Trigon.

Existing pitifully, for serendipity I kept beggin.

That's why there's five bodies crammed inside my fucking trunk right now.

The sun is rising, sky brightening. I'm frightened someone might shout.

I'm late by an hour. When a minute passes, I cut myself.

It looks like I did dives in file knife piles on blood-dyed ground.

For every slice I engrave, I never acquire pain.

And Jesus Christ cannot save me if I die on this day.

I can't fight the feeling one body still might be awake.

As lightning rains, killing the fifth man: a vital mistake.

He's dead but I physically can't stuff him in the back

and I also can't leave him at his house with wounds from an axe.

I try to relax but are those sirens I hear? Oh crap!

It's too much! I'm gonna slice off my own head to avoid that!