Winter grey beach.
Step gingerly into the soft ocean. January icy water. Pain.
It’s not enough.
Among the beautiful shells and soft sand are cigarette butts.
Then, a sand castle.
A reminder that children are better than the slobs who raise them.
But won’t they too grow up to be slobs? Ignorant cunts playing music too loud, refusing to move out of the passing lane, bringing 18 grocery items into 10-or-Less and carelessly leaving cigarette butts and bottles on beautiful beaches?
We are disgusting.
We are parasites.
Thinking only of ourselves.
Ruining the beautiful host we live off.
I choose a path broken shells to walk on. They cut into my feet, and I am aware of every single step I take.
This is why we asphyxiate for orgasm.
Cheat on those who love us.
Slice into our arms and leave scars.
Fuck in public.
We want to feel.
Shell cuts my foot. Sit down on the rocks.
The blood waits, then flows. It matches my chipped red toenail polish. Instead of crying out, I’m fascinated. I feel.
We all have the same choices.
Ruin our lives, our credit, our careers.
Or skydive. Salsa dance. Scuba. Visit a country that won’t speak our language. Try new food. Give.
Then…there are None Of The Above.
They do nothing. Live in monotony. Live in fear.
Never trying for dreams. Maybe they ruin dreams for others.
Dead while alive.
A complete waste of space. Their lungs breathe air into an empty soul.
“I’m bored.” This is not possible.
There is so much to enjoy, see, taste and learn.
What is meant to be said is: “I am boring.”
Seagulls screech overhead, the waves hit the rocks, the blood trickles down.
I breathe deep the salty air.
Feel the chilly sand.
I am Alive.
COPYRIGHT APRIL HUNTER. NO PART OF THIS BLOG MAY BE USED WITHOUT WRITTEN PERMISSION.