Bath Salts, Not Even Once
A poem inspired by Mary Syzbist's "The Lushness of It"
![](https://res.cloudinary.com/jerrick/image/upload/d_642250b563292b35f27461a7.png,f_jpg,fl_progressive,q_auto,w_1024/5fc8446ae1f24b001d967094.jpg)
It’s not that the octopus wouldn’t love you—
It’s that you shouldn’t love him.
He is trapped in that box for a reason.
You are more than welcome to watch,
even brave sticking your arm in his domain.
He’ll twirl his arms around yours.
Each little suction cup will feel
like a love bite, leaving circular splotches.
Blemishes will remind you of your childhood—
chicken pox—
those came from those damn dinosaurs—
that Tyson chicken nuggets claimed
to be healthy for children
to sing ring around the rosy.
Make sure you carry posies
or death
from the embracing arms with dozens
of tiny eyes that stick to your skin
rolling, sliding
sucking
like the purple waves.
They have teeth, they’re gnawing on your flesh—
You’re hungry.
No—sick.
Definitely sick.
It’s not that you wouldn’t love the octopus—
Because you do, you really do.
It’s just that he hates you.
You with your big eyes, flappy nostrils
and wings.
You can fly!
Like a bird or a plane
or a pig.
You imagine their wings would taste delicious,
like vanilla sky.
Clouds are made of ice cream,
unlike snow—
maybe that’s why the octopus doesn’t love you.
If he played in the snow once,
in the strange disease
that seems to have taken over your world
like aliens—
brain suckers—
suction cups—
those are octopus kisses.
Will he ever love you?
Perhaps, love the snow—
yes you know he would love it
as much as you love him.
You smell…iron?
*sniffle*
running down your throat.
It’s not that the octopus never loved you—
You simply forgot his birthday—
Tomorrow—
of next year.
That is one, two, nineteen, one-hundred and seventy two
months from when winter ends
the number of stardust flakes you see
and more of those tiny dragons appear
with red—no orange—stomachs.
Your chest feels heavy
*thump thump*
blood slithers like a snake on steroids
Maybe, the octopus always loved you—
Or maybe, you’re still learning to love him.
About the Creator
L. M. Williams
I'm a self-published author that enjoys writing fantasy/supernatural/romance novels and occasionally dabble in poetry and realistic fiction. If not writing, I'm a freelance artist and a full time mom.
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.