I awakened from my underwater maelstrom-tango with chaos’ sharpened teeth set at my piano-wired jaw.
The gods had done this to me.
Slimy seaweed spectrum-ing oleaginous to moss green knotted my wild hair; still-sharp seaglass slicing my restless hands, pained to sculpt tangible
sing the Sirens’ haunting atonal riffs and shatter human narratives
magnetizing me to the underbelly of love where I would no longer recognize myself—
just a swirl of murky ink in the sea, lost from all beloved.
Orpheus, I can’t hear your glass lyre in the tempestuous sea where bruised humans play shipwreck-bumper cars—to act out, do something, hurt someone, feel something.
On this shore of pulverized pearl sands, prostrate with my face up swallowing cloud-sky—I’m waiting for thee. Come.
The hours before sunrise stretch infinite planes not like existence.
Hours while I greet emptiness to resurrect itself, spin me sublime.
Play the notes of my ribs broken in the shipwreck, my Orpheus—my whalebone corset splintered into my torso where I bleed out—in time—in your music
that unfurls me into sea into sky into the lies I professed to maintain some semblance of sanity while those around me schemed to sell the country.
Drown my poetic lines that never end into a sea that never ends into a love that never ends with any certainty though with certain certainty we will surely die.
I don’t know.