the three thoughts i have on the beach
one – looked up to see residential and squalor. a man once jumped out of here, about forty. i remember when the helicopter flew by and i thought, “must be one of the birds!” how many of those wind up on suicide missions? the man remains nameless to me and to my mother, who delivered the news while sipping on unsweetened tea.
two – i come here to take photographs of myself, displaying my breasts like a twenty-first century sculpture. often criticized for wanting to show myself off, i remind that it is not the object of confidence but attention that flatters me. i dislike myself as much naked as i do clothed, but i am better liked nude – raw skin and vulnerability.
three – the sand numbs me into the comfort of an orange bottle. i need to start exercising to get off it. a note: i rely on inanimate objects that do not hug me. hugging someone that betrayed you is being strangled. the whole thing betrayed me. i hope when i die the doctor knows how to carve out prozac from my bloodstream.