i am a secant.
i cut you once;
i came back to do it again.
you sighed,
but said it was alright
and drew hearts with blood.
less idealistic,
more anatomically correct.
“i am so sorry”
the sea repeats after me in a monotone.
i asked to be ferried out
but i didn’t have a ticket.
i wasn’t given one.
and stolen tickets weren’t accepted.
