Hands grip my waist—bruising.

I close my eyes, and let myself wash away into

My subconscious:

A sandy sea, with a shallow shore.

Green skies, and blue grass.

My hair dangles as blood rushes to my head,

Realizing all too quickly I'm upside down.

The world has been tilted off its axis.

The shedding of clothes,

Squaking of seagulls,

Hoarse, unfamiliar screams,

Splashing of the tide.

I am there,

I am there, I am in this beach,

I am here.

I am here, I am there,

I am—

Underwater.

Water fills my lungs,

A strong grip squeezes my throat:

Hands,

Boy hands,

Roam atop the sand and build castles.

Digging their digits into the

Pliant, pliable Earth.

Humans are made of

Blood, guts, and semen.

Hands grip my throat—killing.

It was all becoming real.