You have salt. Because it burns.
Milk under the window.
around your bed.
Even some Holy Water. Maybe
And things that protect you
from yourself. Things that
singe arm hair
Can kill you.
You have salt, because it burns. Lick your finger, coat it in salt. Shove it in a cut. Float in the tub.
"I guess I am a bride of Satan," you mumble to the ceiling. Laugh. Loud, echoing through the moldy bathroom. Pull yourself up.
Brush your teeth naked. Thin. Ribs and vertabrae. Breasts like goose pimples. Way to tiny. Angular. Sharp, jutting hip bones. Blood in the tooth paste that you spit out.
You pull on a zip up that isn't yours. Maybe her's? Frayed jeans are pulled on. When was the last time you did wash?
Lighter clicks. Back fires. Burns your eyebrows and fringe. Fuck it.
You wait all night, through two pack of cigarettes and she doesn't come.
Salt in a wound, burning at the stake. Jump off a building. Fly away.