It is a creative writing piece written for a college competition. It tends to be dirtily ranty woman-ish somewhere. Excuse that.
I am still twisting that wet strand of hair like some rope dipped in tea. There's crumbs of walnut brownie on my lips. No, actually the corner of my mouth. It looks like the curve of the boat that we saw at the beach, I know. There is a salty sea inside the walls of my mouth, I can feel the watery slimy emotions brimming like a choker necklace up till my throat, the water exploding through my nose, my ears, all crevices, my mouth, the open ends of my globe like opulent eyes, my open freckled pores and those streams of saline flood cracking at the back of my neck. Stop, think about the death. Forget the funeral. Defense mechanism. Period.
Let's pick another one. I will rationalize my panic attacks and the irrational post traumatic stress of losing you. There is just enough time for the talk. After all, we are different people. I like beans and you, spinach. My eyes can't see, like rains on a plastic sheet. There is a storm brewing at the pit of my womb.
How were you? Now receding, ebb like, tissue by tissue, dripping in clots, aren't you petrified of the next storm in the sewage pipelines? That will be another storm, flushed. He is scrubbing my interiors clean, like cardboard. I can hear something like waxy paper. There is a mesh with big holes and it is filtering knuckled words and fist fights.
Just for four months' sake, I will write my own elegies to you.
"While I pack crates and move boulders from my choking throat, as I carefully uncork the ululating storm. I untie the cord. Snap! From Amneotic pool to murky suspicious oceans. You will sink, it will sink in you. Honks and gongs may sing to your sleepy mornings. After you gobble breakfast with Gillyweed and pebbles, wave through those layers of blue; huge red bottoms of sailing ships will pass you by.