by Amanda Deo
I think it will sting and it does. You jump, twist and close your eyes at the same time like it's natural. I want to choke and vomit into the ocean. I want to blame it on the kid next to me. But there is nothing sexy about gulping for air and dying in New Jersey. Maybe for mobsters. Maybe for their wives. My lungs expand with what's left of our home sunk inside. A horizon shrinks a burden until it's a seagull getting fat off vinegar fries. I'm in love with the way your mouth moves when you aren't talking. When it fills with salt. When it finds God inside a hermit crab. The way it looks.