Aquarium existence in an office, glass walls and window panes. A parade of people tapping on an always open door. Window washers claim the best view.
Hired for radula sharpness, to rasp against browning sludge for that clean idea,
without the title I’m a slug chewing through yesterday’s decayed novelties. Boss milks anxieties to extract Tyrian purple ink, regal flourishes for her mundane briefs.
Clinging to walls, I inch along to retreat under my desk. Heart mussel memory pumps saline through not yet inflated lungs. Trickles from eyes shed double helixed pieces of me searching for a stream that floats to the briny shores of birth.
But like a hermaphrodite, I screw myself and remain, as empty as a washed-up seashell, selling out far from the seashore.
First appearing in In/Words Magazine & Press: Issue 18.2 February 2019