Sitting at the turf of my precipice,
I see grievance in the faces of eels, and I try to eat them raw, as if they are waxen desserts.
We moved out from our kitchen, an hour ago.
Ah, the correction:
She kicked us out, from where all the spice and smile cooked.
I’m slowly forgetting the taste of her cinnamon kisses,
but I don’t blame her,
I always exhibited the opposite attributes of a maverick, twirling on the vortex, appeared in her eyes, that she created at the snap of her fingers and I loved to be drawn in them with her nimble expressions and cadence in the whistle.
She enjoyed being in command, leaving her initials on my hips, getting me clasped on the vise that I could never dare to ask: why she needed in the kitchen?
For I was afraid
I might goad her to hew something out of me.
I strongly believed that one day I will get us out from this bedlam, and all the torture that I’m going through will enact a pivotal role in our redemption.
With the passing time,
I became the reception for all the things she wanted to throw when she got really mad because of the noise pollution created by humans, and this madness kept increasing day by day, for she was not accustomed to be around them.
I was the only human she loved.
We even had blast making out in the bathtub.
She liked being in the water; me too but with her.
Then her desire to be submerged kept increasing, and one day she hit me with something, that I can assume was made of chromium by feeling the hole it created at the back of my head,
and spoke for the first time
Pointing at bathtub:
My heart sank in sadness when I realized
I couldn’t keep this mermaid anymore.