I am a fish.

TW: blood, fish, trauma, violence, etc etc. sigh. 
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when the shock clears and the feelings come— a whole year later. when you're at the mercy of the nothing void and the all at once flood. when a whole year later means ripping open, anew , all the decades past—

& when a whole year later brings with it a new round of wound: not scab, not armored, fresh serrated drag and bright bright bright

how much can a body hold? how much can mine? perhaps all of it; because we are water, after all. water and scaffolding and skin—

& Woman.

I stare at walls, through them, most days. they are white, pocked, nicked, lived-in. they are white like the freshly scaled undersides of fish before the split and gutting, of flesh readied and flayed. I am a fish: belly up, still, glassy eyed. I am the shock of a breaths abrupt halt. I am the loss of the once-alive.

and I am waiting— a fool, baited again—for the bubble up and the first red globule, and the trickle and the breathe again, though drowning, though splitting. I am a human thing. I followed the signs here. I knew what I'd see—

who else can I blame but myself for the bleed?