I cut my heels with a shell, her concave, smooth white surface slicing open my body to the world.
I thought I'd see the ocean, with all of the water in my body flooding out, hearing every salty breath, and smelling the frothy turquoise, foamy mess; I thought I'd finally become one with her, and it'd fill in the rest of my thirty percent frame.
I wanted to be like water, but I had forgotten all the pollution, and so through my wounds came bottles of nothing, plastic rash strings, shattered glass, an allergic, asthmatic shutdown, my body flopping and deflating like a dying fish.
I didn't realize how much comes with being like the water.
The words concave shell and asthmatic were in my head for hours so I had to put it out somehow