A wound for some salt?

I want to run screaming into the woods. Always have. It's like I was born with a terribly old and bitter soul that cant stand the sight of itself and prefers death and solitude.

 

My counterpart has eluded me and it seems that my clock is about to stop ticking. For some things, time is clearly running out. Yet, there is always hope. Those that would fancy a bottle over a warm breast will never truly know me anyway. So what have I actually lost?

 

Nothing, seeing as though I never really had anything but my skin and the skin I made. Why be sad then? Oh for agony's sake of course. Pain creeps in and snuggles itself into the nooks and crannies, unwilling to leave. So I let it stay.

 

I should feel it, as I am never not to blame. It can never heal though can it? Not with the salt truck running day and night past the open wound.

 

Suck suck suck it up I always say. Those words are better left on my pillow.