So they cut off all their hair and went out searching for a vessel. Disguised themselves as trees. They hid in the bottom of a boat. Sometimes there’s no difference between ship and shit. Vomit and bombs and never ending water. Under the cover of darkness. Unattached to a country. They were a floating limb floating. What’s the difference between a blossom and a blur? The witness. They cut their lips trying to gnaw through uncertainty. It tasted like the back of a memory. A gesture disguised as a drowning wave. Goodbye to the thirst and the taste of salt water. A forgotten story made of bone. Often water grabbed them by the neck and shoved panic down their throats. They lost their tongues, their words. What do you call a home that’s disappeared in the mouth of night?

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