Thomas Aidan Hiscock – Mussel Cove, Falmouth, Maine – 2025

***

I woke up tasting blood.

Biting my lip, I tried to rally saliva but only managed bile … and a grimace …

Oh, fuck me … and more blood.

Blood doesn’t taste like … ‘pennies’…

Blood tastes like salt and sex …

Blood tastes like power …

… Where’d it come from?

I searched my face, wincing as I stumbled over a patchwork of torn skin …

Struggling upright, I tried to stand – rejected by white-hot pain and fatigue –

the ground rushed to meet me and I curled up … CURLED UP …  crawling in the filth like a GODDAMN FUCKING WORM!

My fingers scrabbled for purchase, nails caked with dirt and shame.

I blinked stars from my eyes but the tears wouldn’t leave – every breath, agony …

“WHY?!” I screamed, pleading with the gloom …

I never wanted to suffer … but by God, I’d beg to die …

Where the fuck was I?!

There was nothing — save silence,

and the taste of pennies in my fucking mouth … 

***