Between the Sea and Me

Dead skin always wears the same putrid scent. The only way to feel again is to slowly peel through the layers until you feel the sharp pierce of a gentle touch on raw flesh. We use whatever tools we have, we make some up.

We learn to bury our dead.

And my head hangs low, horns twisted round themselves. I think I could learn to make this right. After all, there's no one left to blame except my father's only daughter.

I think often of redemption. I meditate on martyrdom.
My satyr horns tangle deeper in the underbrush. My saturnine hooves forget how to kick.

But I'd like to switch my metaphors, please.
These wings are weak, but we'll make it home, I swear. And if I heed my own warnings, I will abide. We will feel alive. In here, in there, wherever. Who cares?

I'm well acquainted with passion. At times, overwhelming, I know.
But who needs the sun, anyway? I've always thrived at night.