She sits on the steps of the New York Public Library, drinking between lions and cigarette ash.
Hey, babe, your hairs alright. Hey…let’s go out somewhere tonight.
She sits in a torn dress with her make up smeared, tipping the bottle up. A cigarette hangs daintily from her fingers.
She takes a drag, pulling in smoke. When she exhales her skin glows, little sparks flying from her lips.
They call her Calamity. When she drinks, she burns. The only known case of spontaneous combustion without death.
It feels like stealing the divine spark, then throwing up all your innards.
It’s not pretty, not even close. Sometimes it can look cool though. When my hair catches and burn like fuses.
Alcohol dulls the pain, but increases the symptoms. It’s horrible. You can’t do enough, but I guess, that’s not the test.
She coughs, burps, watches her fingernails turn to ash.
She blows on them and they scatter into the wind.
Want to see something cool? I call it the hot tramp.
She takes a deep drink and her skin begins to glow white-hot. She grins and begins to pull the skin from her arm. She tosses it into the air and it rains down in little burning embers.
It hurts, yeah…but the new skin is the best skin. A handful of ludes and I’m off like a live wire.
Only to end up like this at the end, again and again. Torn dress, face all a mess. Punishment for the fire.
She pours the rest of her bottle out next to a pigeon and brushes ash from her shoes.
You look like you know what I’m talking about. We look divine. Let’s go dancing.
Arm in arm we walk down Fifth Avenue, sparks trailing her like a falling star.