to the sound of monsters breathing,
swallowing
a girl in a pink dress.
I woke up to the edge of the knife—
no, the knife woke me,
and the room spun into itself.
I woke him up too,
told him we had to leave.
But nothing came out.
We ran
to the shore,
and I split,
spilling my silver insides
over the water.
The night smelled like metal,
and my chest burned with salt
or panic or maybe both.
In the morning,
the ice cream cart played its song,
and I stood on the beach with sticky hands
and sugar on my tongue.
PORTOBELO PANAMA, 2011⠐