sometimes, fiction writes itself.

a poem, or something like it.

"how do you like the ocean?"

his voice was a sidewalk i wanted to be on.

"it's no good to drink it. "

god damn ocean.

i will drink you.
the salt will clog my veins
and the fishys will live inside me.

pink coral will grow with my brain
and spiral out of my ears and onto
the floor.

"oh, how lovely." people will say.

people. will. say. people like lovely things.

an octopus will neighbor my
lungs and say "how do you do?
i'm moving in too!"

sea weed will grow so tall
it'll wrap around my air way,
just to spite me.
just to kill me.
kill me for being a
heavy drinker.

baby gives me a weird look.
i love him.
his voice is a sidewalk i want to be on.

"are you okay?" he asks.

i'm fine.

f-i-n-e.

"i'm fine, just awfully thirsty."

so god damn thirsty
for something other than this.
my life.

i want to drink your life, be you.

drink. it. away.
you can drink me
have me how you want.

how you want, baby.