Some days she tripped on her hair and crawled back to her veins; it was warm and wet and she was reminded of the womb she narrowly escaped when she was only as strong as bacteria. Her nails, now grown to a foot long would dig in the flesh of the bed sheets and make it bleed. She’d grin and lick her lips. Some days she woke up with a blinding headache, a remnant of that one time she fell in love. It moved inside her skull, all rabid and fierce, flowing down to her heart and she called that, as the god she was to herself, a heartache. A fucking heartache that would not dull down for months, years. A cut in her right ventricle that would break open whenever she breathed.

In the shallow water she bathed, the snakes crawled down her legs and slithered up to the wound in her heart where they feasted on the pain she nurtured. Such was her life that she could not separate her from death, nor did she want to; the comfort it brought her was far too big. To wake up dead and live in the void that she felt. To walk the road of coffins and crosses and use each and every one of them as clothing lines for her wet cheeks. To sit on the dead and drink with them.

Some days she bit into her lip to see if she still bled. Some days she did.

The others she got up and walked to work.

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