The ocean spoke, saying, "Wish. You won't. Wish you won't. You wish, you won't". I lay in the sand and put my handkerchief over my face so as not to allow the mosquitoes to get their little vampire lips against my soft cheeks. That skin is for you to chew. I'll save it the best I can.
If I had any spine at all, I'd wade into the sweat of Chesapeake Bay and swallow lungfuls until I sank like a stone. If I had any spine at all, I'd march like a soldier all the way from the Atlantic to the Pacific and carry you on my back like all the dead weight you've proven to be, and we could find some crater in the mountains and dig our separate holes and wallow in the mud until we bleed from our eyes and die passively in a puddle of Self.
Wish you won't wish you won't wish you won't. I'll bleed liquor by the end of this, by Gawd.
North Carolina; I picked dried blood out of my hair for hours, gritty maudlin burgundy under chewed fingernails, sprinkled like paprika upon the dusty veins of our nation.
You won't wish. You won't.