She hasn't softened her grip on the noose, rough around her neck.
Shutting her eyes tighter than an oyster shell she tries to shed some salty water.
Next tuesday she'll set fire to herself,
waking the neighbours
and adding to the portrait of misery she has scarred on her skin.
Scattered bottles of pills and rusted razor blades,
bottles of charcoal
and a bathtub of lukewarm water is where she calls home.
She wraps herself up in kerosene comforts and inhales.
She is running into her end as fast as she can.
They have burnt sage to exorcise her, and pulsed her mind to numb her.
She knows the walls of pure white rooms are the blackest of all.
She gets higher when she swallows gravel,
finds more clarity with her head underwater.
"That girl", they whisper, "That girl is on fire."
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