I flash the word death in my head and hear a SCREECHING
of things I don’t want to see, but they flood, unneeded.
Crevices filled with grimy fingers, frisking for Truth.
Recall: hot, languid nights
and my hand is an otter, playing with waves of dry, oven air.
Recall: cold ocean waves, stinging my outer membrane.
Screeching…with joy. I grope for your seaweed fingers.
Darkness would be welcome here.
Darkness would cover my face.
I unsee. I invoke unsight.