Flotsam and jetsam.

I need to bleed these pictures out from my fingertips.
I need to replace my blood with something more satisfying, less itchy.

If I don't bleed them out here onto these keys, then the suppressed ghosts will fight for my attention, they'll consume me in their transparent, acidic stomachs.

The ghost of a jellyfish.
Haunts, taunts, flaunts the freedom all over me, inside me, mocking me with it's delicious, salty, tempting sight.

I close my eyes and open my mouth to the bipeds, searching for something, someone, anything else to distract me from the hungry ghosts.

And who the fuck are YOU, to call this psychosis? And who am I to fight it, to fight anything. Why fight when you can sink, why float?

The flotsam of her bones sleeping on the shore. The seaweed tentacles staining the border between our world and their's. Mine?
Welcoming, foreboding, threatening, loving? What logic is this?

Eviscerating the cage of my chest, I reach in and remove the bloody mess of a heart, to throw overboard, lighten the load of our cargo.

It's the only way to survive the storm.

But why survive?

And why not?

"It was in a foreign hotel's bathtub
I baptized myself in change
And one by one I drowned all of the people I had been
I emerged to find the parallels were fewer
I was cleansed
I looked in the mirror
And someone new was there
But, I was as helpless as a chess piece
when I was lifted up by someone's hand
And delivered from the corner
my enemies had got me in
But in all of my salvation
I still felt imprisoned inside that holding cell
that is myself."


Write me something pretty.