Don't you chirp at me.
Eyes closed, the sun stabs her in the mouth.

The taste of fear fills her face as everything come back;
she vomits a good while,
memories stirring and playing themselves in the tune of a forgotten sea
(cause times are changing and that's just what they do).

spit. trust. trust. spit.

Waves crashing against a wall of recollection in a way
that is meant to be kept for the punitive and the exiled.

The train blares outside somewhere
fuzzy focus dissipates quickly
and this slowly comprising function of clarity
comes to a screeching halt as it begins to pour in.

In some state of bewildered entitlement