Hood

Sure enough,

I’m washed up:

a beached whale

that’s belching salt,

and has blistered skin.

In the soft sand of time

I slice

a sloppy slow grin.

I sit on it,

a taunt,

while it ticks softly beneath

teasing me with its hands,

the death on my body reached.

I peel see-through skin from my husk,

white gills on my arms

flap like wings.

I want to feel lifted,

vaporised,

dissipated and released.

Instead my papercut wings

offer only pain and no peace.

Hiding under hoods,

my wounds are raw, sore,

and stinging

from being peeled out of a shell

that was both drowning and wringing.

On two feet I stand,

and kick away the smug grin:

Me human. You human.

From an end we begin.

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