Blood in the sand…

The day I was born my mother sent me naked screaming into the world. Hurling towards a pinpoint of light from between her legs, that I would spend the entirety of my forty-two years chasing and failing to reach.

Till one day, over a cup of coffee and a donut, I realized that blowing my brains out was the only way I would find peace.

This is where you come in.

You’re probably somewhere in a stupor scrolling through Facebook, watching Netflix and digging a chubby hand into a bag of something you shouldn’t be eating. Aghast at what I’ve done. All the while sitting there in a digitized state of near comatose gluttony. Consuming my misery.

Thoughts and prayers, likes and shares, a million posts later. Each of you an armchair psychologist, dissecting and mapping out my life.

The news, not even giving my carcass time to cool before picking the meat from my bones. Sitting there reading my letter to you. I presume they pulled it from my mangled backpack, and now noble journalists sought in vain to make some grand psychoanalysis out what I’d done. All they were really doing was making it out to be more complicated than it really was.

I’d had enough, and that’s all it was.

Now my brains were sprayed across the sand

My skull open like petals

Petals of a blood drenched dahlia bending toward the hot sun

The humidity causing steam to rise from the jellified bits and piececs

Wide and delicate

Jagged edges with a fullness

Elegantly displayed as the waves crashed

A red wetness soaking into the sand

And between my toes

Before I fell

What seemed like ages passed before anyone noticed, and then amidst a strange pause the screams came. Seagulls circling as blood ran to the tide.

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