epicene-writings:

Contemplating

Well, actually,

i dont think it was a pretty day

for her, or a pretty weather

altogether.

;

The soiled sky and cement waves

met only torn cloth, stained

with wine, sweat, mucus, maybe

vomit. I know

what i’m talking about! and I’m saying

Those rocks aren’t pretty.

Covered in dead fishes (still slimy, or carcasses already), dried-up

algae, and seagull poop

– sticky, gross, and, well,

hard to climb. It made

her nails go black

before time.

It wasn’t – at any rate –

a pretty day.

;

Not that there was no sun;

It wasn’t cold. It wasn’t hot, either,

when she stripped the wind that    

quickly reformed behind her body

– that pile of dirty laundry.

Really, there was nothing left

and there was nothing where

the air meets water

already.

;

Well: actually,

she didn’t feel it happening

she just fell

and you know how the sea is

when you fall

from that high.

;

Torn

Cloth, and a

broken hairpin,

that wasn’t even

made of gold. That’s about it.

;

I’m telling you:

it wasn’t a pretty death

it wasnt a pretty day

it wasnt a pretty sea

it wasnt a pretty

pretty

pretty

pretty

pretty

pretty…