2 a.m. The most rotten noise you can imagine.

I'm sick of you, baby.

Yeah? So, I know, God. God, what a name to have in this household. You're the only one with wings, the only one heaven sings for. It must be nice to look like something worth saving and brushing off and eating whole. It must be real tough to be so magnificent, always having to figure out who left which lipstick print on your shoes.

That's beside the point. Here, we're watching the movie of the life you could've lived. The one without guilt pin pricking your fingertips when you close your eyes. The one without whiskey bottle music combo, glass break handshake with death, mother without tear streaked face, father without closed fist, family without empty, love without "please don't leave", what a show, kid. What a way to be.

Father's sneer.

**** yourself.

Find sister's Oxy. Weakness.

Off topic.

I bathe myself in crystal ****, shimmering, lovely shades of nothing. I eat myself out of my walls. I tie my limbs into knots, look at my palms and see someone's blood, I can't taste who's, I spend the rest of the night obsessed. I have a dream about my boyfriend, he has no scars, he has no body, he is just eyelashes and whimpering. I can still see him. I swat a dozen flies until my grandmother reincarnated falls to the ground, telling me it's alright.

Tell me, what's the secret to being so light? Is it dropping all your insides at Love's front door? Tell me, how do I get over the rainbow from here?