Procrastinating on homework until I fall off the 50th story of hell

{{So, my brain preserved in a glass jar: /

I’m supposed to take it out/

& use it as the last shooting star/

I’m supposed to bake it in moon juice/

& inject the remnants of its magic/

in my palms, so you think that’s all/

my brain is good for.}}

I can loop etudes and crack an aria/

on the side of your head/

call it an egg, (yes I’m throwing it at you)/

I’m throwing it at you to sing to you/

that I’m not the only one going to hell.

Fires can burn the soles of my feet/

they’ve already hardened their fabric/

to withstand far worse:/

decayed school bathrooms preserved/

on my shoe, I don’t know why you still/

keep it there when it’s just about dead/

the wall paper crumbling, moaning of death/

there was another reason I threw at you a song:/

because you don’t have any music at all/

in the blood of your being.