"And when I press right here, see? That’s yer rib cage...You feel it?"
He pushes down a little with the big hunting knife, on bone on skin. My lungs are really hot and exploding and making my eyes and nose water.
"It’s a fuckin set a lungs, under the goddamn breast plate, see?""It’s not the breast plate"
"The fuck you talkin about girl, it’s RIGHT HERE"
Gentle like my grandma handling a dandelion in the field outside the barn but I can still feel hollow, steel
My inside doesn’t have anything inside it.
"You’re on the sternum now...you don’t know shit about bones""Well I ain’t a doctor but neither are you so were both wrong I guess"
When the handle grazes my neck I feel wood and I’m afraid I’ll get a splinter. A splinter in your neck. A big ol broomhandle of wood sticking out into the fog.
Because sailors are always losing their way, always in disaster.
Mermaids come from disaster, so do sirens and people that grow tentacles and fuck each other with em.
Human squid and that man that turned into a tree because of his genetic code. They get it in.
India or Pakistan. parasites.
Here they’ll burn your clit with a pall mall 100 if they catch you looking at an eclipse.