Your red tide is burning rust, making newly polished things out of polished things we once bonded in lust. And at the bottom of this ocean door lay the dead skeletons of dead fish- their ivory bones gleaming and moored like pretty faces, handpicked and carved, from the prettiest crowd. So beautiful these dead reminders, hanging from a Christmas tree- hanging from a gold chain on my neck- hanging from your mouth like a *** of spit ready to fall into the ocean, to be drowned.