Hummingbird.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

They were words of boredom. Words of solitude. Words of the inevitable ache that had filled her center and spread to the various continents of her body -- her fingers, her toes, her legs, her arms -- all slight pieces of land that were hinged together awkwardly, tectonic plates beneath the surface of her smooth and aching skin, joining together to create the island that she had become. Had been born as. Would die as. 

--

It was an interesting predicament, the story of her life and eventual death. A story that, had she been given years to pen, hunched over an ancient desk, seated on a rocky and slightly-too-short seat, the cushion sunken and the arms loose, she would never have been able to begin.

--

Hands on the wheel. Sun reflecting off her teeth. Dust on the road a she flew past the thoughts that represented everything she had known of life up until this moment and drove toward the future, headlong into days and nights of--

--

There was nothing left to do but shut her eyes and imagine. And as her lashes hit her cheeks, her breath flowing out of her lungs and between her lips like the final suicidal fog rising out of a smoker's mouth who had chosen to quit, she knew that what it was true what they said: There was nothing left to do but jump.