You trip on syringe-sharp rocks, chasing an obsidian Siren.
You plunge into tar pits with crimson dripping from elbow to wrist.
The gunk bites back. Slime-slicked pinchers pierce the arm, veins inflame with fire coral’s kiss.
Salt caresses crevices, shrivels your lungs. No sucker fish to flush out the wound.
The Siren shrieks, You’re the only bottom feeder and you’ve outgrown your pond.
You nod without knowing it.
You can fight your lids, but not the current. A mermaid’s poppy-seed potion, but not her trident.
Another wave slams your skull.
The horizon evaporates. Sea-foam green, your cracked lips still pucker.
Like primordial goo, Paige Johnson originates from Florida swampland. There, she edits In Filth It Shall Be Found, Outcast-Press.com’s short story collection about everything from drug-dealing mobsters to romantic morgue-workers. Have an alienated anti-hero? Drop a line below, even as Someone Who Isn’t Me. Fan Page: Facebook.com/ThePoliticiansDaughter Submission Calls: Outcastpresssubmissions@gmail.com