Your skin slices open

A dark red oozes out

There's a thrumming in your veins

It aches

pokes

and bites

Nipping at your nerves

Trembling under pressure

A sound emerges from your lips

Echoing in the open air

Affliction at its finest

Yet no one hears

It is just you

Lying in a pool of inky liquid

That was once in you

But now isn't

Apart of a life

Life leaking away

My first memory is hazy, surrounded by a swirl of gray matter and blueish smoke. I'm four years old standing in the black stained sands of Michigan. It's my first time, and I'm looking for a bucket to put the sand in. It's almost time to leave to head back to the house. I don't want to go though.

I run towards the water, a periwinkle blue that matches the sky. I'm sure to find my bucket there. My mother stops me before my bare feet can touch the wet sand and turns me around. It's time to go. She probably says something to comfort me but I can't remember the words.

We head towards my family who are waiting for me at the boardwalk. Someone gives me my shoes to protect my feet from the hard gravel. The wood of the boardwalk feels smoother when compared to the road.

After a headcount that doesn't hold much place in my memories, we head out. Our time at the beach is done.