Can you see it like I can,
a boasting child,
a boating child,
an accident
she drowned.

Down,
the bubbles escape,
race like red toy cars
as blood blossoms out ears,
and pressure builds,
and fingers reach upwards
                                                         ­                                        pop
where small fingers are glassed with soapy water
and white and blue frosting.
scribbled over red lettering, "Happy Birthday Meredith."
And cards were presented with pasts and futures,
torn open like a shark attack
and ripping skin,
flapping back like dog ears, as he sticks his head out the window
and howls at the neighbors
for their loud music ways.

Silent crashing waves,
that boom death metal
and ride tidal curls
that bounce off her head.

As she writhes,
a red ribbon in her hair.
Hair of spun gold
like the sun
smothered by the moon.

Darkness eclipses.

And the last of the air is pushed
through her lungs
for light has drifted away,
torn like a suckling pig from its ****
and she is lost.
As her body floats away, pulled down.

Unclasped, she roams free.
groans, "Meeeee. Find mee...eeeee."
And eels slither from her jaw,
agape and brackish blue,
like pirate ship wine
sunken *** and treasure troves,
and streamline red.

Adding to a salty complexity
of tarnished speckled metal
like speckled eggs.
And brown eyes
bore out by hermit *****
that broke their shells after a gluttonous feast.

Unbuttoning her dress
a flower paisley sort of thing,
a useless scrap of sodden material,
for nothing matters,
as she thinks nothing can hold on to her
now and before.

She is aware,
but not really there, because you would miss her
like you did when she stood in the hall,
your eyes passed over,
and so stayed her silent screams.

So she left our world,
or rather hovered and watched
as much as she could without eyes.
She watched you,
and felt nothing over your cries
because she feels nothing
Now.

Psychotic-ness
where in the abyss
can I fly to my dreams
where responsibility streams
like feathers through your hair
and dripping tears, Despair.
of lonely mid-spring nights
and tumbled breathtaking flights
that lead to stony shallow brooks
riddled with dead fish hooks
covered and soaked to the brim
spilling frothed foam
like sea water monsters
and seaweed tears.