S. R. Schulze
Under the wind’s assault, my hair is caught in a flap of dried skin on my lips. Tiny crescents from where I had dug my teeth in. Ripping open the sensitive skin of my lips again and again. Waking up with the taste of copper on my tongue, aching jaw.
Humpback whale carcass rotting on the rocky beach. Red flesh scattered on brown shells as seagulls clumsily peck away. Tarnished bones protrude from its stomach. One, two, three ribs, once white now cracked and yellowing under the weather.
A wake of admirers stumbling after her, unaware of their own decay.