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.

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