My stomach sinks
And why shouldn’t it?
Like every other vessel.
It carries its passengers to their destination.
It is a machine.
So why shouldn’t it sink?
My body is ruled by waves
Steady and consistent
A constant knock from my stony plinth
No erosion barriers
Waiting for the sheer rock face to give
To let me plummet
To the icy depths.
Bones of driftwood
Cobbled together with nori
Limpets for eyes.
The salt keeps the blood in,
Coursing through my veins of coral.
My body ricochets against the seabed,
Like it has on every unfaithful bed I have ever kept.
There is no rest for the wicked.
Sand becomes my digestive system.
As my skin rots
Like my lungs, my tarred soul sinks.
My brain dissipates like candyfloss in water.
Sentient pink slime
Spreading its appendages skywards
Willing to be precarious on a totem once more.
But my plinth is no more.
Even the boulders of my exterior are nothing more than a handful of sand.
Reality suspended in the sea
Its purpose becomes to piss off fish
To blind them into becoming a shark’s elevenses.
Even in death, I am naught but destructive.
Maybe chaotic neutral.
I am trying my best.
I am waiting for the people that will find me enough.
Enough sustenance of a person to be around.
Yet here I lie,
Fulfilling only for the krill.
I offer my tears as water
But they are saltier than the ocean.
Do fish even drink water?
You’d think I’d have noticed after being buried with them these 18 years.
I’ve been too focused on my own thrashing,
My own plight for air.
I beg for Posiden to discover me,
A salt cast of my lips,
Cupid’s favourite bow.
I beg he gasps life into me,
So I can reclaim my former beauty,
And become the plinth that failed me, many moons ago.