F--- it.
You said martyr blood dyed my scarf red, so I
used it to hang my childhood and brand it a suicide
(or liver cancer).

I giggle over champagne as you march into 1949
one press conference at a time.
Every nationalized bottle of water in that Soviet edifice laced with my cyanide. Every ballot scratched with bad words and
every fire hydrant pumping gun powder instead.

Go ahead and start the choreography. Celebrate; you won the 2035 election today. Better get a standing ovation before
the clapping generates too much heat.

Boom.

The crystal-coffin mummy tumbles.
Unzipped teeth munch away at your pulpit, your newly-black hair.
I shoot fireworks from my smartphone.

Spell out f---dom with each explosion of poetic justice.