seaward hearts | angel/parson [day 2]

i leave the blood-red tides, the melodies of the ashen sea, and the buoyant corpses of the mutations – after hastily packing one carcass inside my rhinestone bag.

despite the hatred i have towards the jellyfishes, food is scarce and should be wisely rationed here. each resource given to us holds tremendous value, just as each friend holds a dagger behind them.

survival equates to betrayal, or, at least that was what mackenzie and the life addict in me articulated. but, for now, i couldn't care about survival. for now, i have to seek parson out.

the starfish clings to my thumb-less hand, regardless of the blood and pungent smell of copper. only with a strong yank, its suctions stop tugging on the skin, and gosh, its underbelly is far from a pleasant sight.

“you might die if you stick with me,” i kneel down near a rock, white broth lapping its surface, and release the pink creature gently. “so, go.” i am over death; if this starfish’s chances of survival are inside my grasp, i will not let them bleed or fade.

back at home, the wounds i had were from humans – their nails, or teeth, or personas, specifically. nights alternated between lovers and predators, rough touches and soft caresses. there was a pattern to my wounds, bite-marks, and red patches, but none to my pickings.

the booze in the system decides which one to feast upon. if i'm in luck, they were persuaded in a matter of seconds, their footsteps eager to seek dark corners or empty rooms.

love was corporal to me, a sentiment forged between two bodies, a fleeting passion which enters recklessly and then leaves at short notice. it never bothered to stay for more than a night's span, always walking out, devoid of a good-bye, or a comforting gesture.

love clung to the flesh outside, not the soul underneath. love resided behind the walls of dimly-lit, wet-neon motels and danceless clubs. it smelled of burnt-out cigarettes, men's aftershave, and cheap beer cans.

this is no different – star-crossed lovers. a train-wreck, waiting to happen. but, of course, it doesn't stop me from rushing into the company of parson's arms, guiding them desperately around my trembling form to form an embrace. his warmth pervades, like a blanket of protection.

“i am so sorry for letting that happen to you, can you even still hear?” ear-drums catch his apology; i respond with a kiss to his bruised knuckles. “yes, i can hear. it wasn't your fault, parson, or your duty either.” eyes rise and hold his gaze. “if the situation demands it, remember to save yourself – above all else.”

because, it is what i would do too.

head lays rest to itself upon parson's shoulder, and i look out at the dark-blue waters, flowing and ebbing, a thin line separating them from the skies above. this is the line we tiptoe on, the sea a pith of tragedies and the sky our freedom. a delivery word chirps nearby and i reach out for it.

our seaward hearts pulsate
sporadically, skipping beats.
behind us, comes a cannon.