Flight Recorder Recovered
Ocean worn. Salty and corroded at the corners. Edges like battery rot. One side has been outright bitten. Tatters of kelp peel away.
A black box warped by blacker depths.
There you are. Looking For My Teeth.
Holding Hands
Fleeting, yet seething. Safe, yet smothering. A constant wrongness. A daily need to vomit up your own reality. Living with suicidal needs makes sense when nothing else does. Moment to moment, sometimes second to second. It’s like being pregnant with a feral animal in the form of an omnipresent emotion. But I could put it down. I could let it out and set it free. Watch it grow, then sleep for the first time ever.
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