To the dear sweet salt,
You make everything flavorful. I miss you on my open wounds. Life is bland. I hurt too little, and it makes me hurt. I steal pepper shakers and put them in my pockets but it is not the same. They only make me sneeze. I can’t feel alive, and my tongue is lonely. My internal organs are rotting inside me. Ninety eight point six is far from refrigeration. I lack your preserving power. My heart is rotting away and falling off into my stomach acid. I suppose for that I am not hungry. But soon I will have no heart; feed me again?
The famished. The hyponatremic.