A book, solemn, to cry.
About loss, perhaps, pain.
That's what it's for, each page stealing tears.
But as my shell racks with sobs, echoing the taste.
Salt ripping damp marks onto every surface.
Soaked rooms, shut cameras.
Violent stabs in my gut.
Wrecking my skin, dragging my nails, smelling the metal.
Stained hearts with wet paths.
I wish it was because of the book.