Dead Sea

I hate everything;
“Perception is necessarily a reflection of the self”.
Demons are wounds, hidden
Like fossils in human flesh.
Some fester and weep,
Screaming to the touch;
Others close
Like lips, the end
Of an unresolved argument,
Slammed doors, grand finale;
A nail polish bottle cemented shut
By its own contents.
Scar tissue patterns
Locked inside the beachy pebble of my body
Tell tales on me,
Of what I am, who I have been.
Crack me open and the dead rise up
Like steam, a cloud of dust.
My insides turn 
To rust from submergence.
My once-smooth figure, now 
So jagged, cuts like arrowheads.
The curled up scroll
Of an ammonite
Unfurls its whorls
And I emerge from shells,
Writ in stone.
Grains of sand.
I trace my name and wait
As waves sashay, kiss
My history, and roll it into bed.
I skip across swells, a lady 
Christ, and I drop deep.
The wounds are salted,
And shame recedes
Towards the moon.

The End

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