I’m sitting in a candy-cane-scented pool of blood, reading of war, slaughters in unstuck time, so it goes.
It is art, they both are, the words and the soaking.
I’m painting my nails red, the mermaid swaying innocently in pinkish water, too far removed from the sirens who took seaman with their crusted, edged prongs.
He watches someone die, and I am as wild and removed without the death, though I watched a soul flee from pain once.
I’m taking care of myself, knawing guilt recedes into hunger, and the cat purrs fullfilling its simple purpose: just to be.
Art doesn’t justify a man’s conscience, but binge-watching does.