Sweet and salty kettlecorn shrapnel
Scatters a falsely ocean-colored carpetscape;
Heavy corn casualties at 0100 over Indianan waters.
I could dive through
One of the murky stains and
Chip the rest of my fingernails
Along the portal away from persecution.
At least I'm not biting them from fear,
But fingernails should hold their
**** keratin when
You're trying to wind each neural pathway
Back to where they were six months ago.
I'll try to scrape as much oddness out
As I can with these jagged edges
And consume sweet and salt
In my scattered, corn-filled ocean mirage.