you are the corpse of a whale. sink to the ocean floor.
1. soft tissue.
how many weeks do the sharks feed on your flesh, in your first bloody descent? the violence of the fall still shocks you to your core. talk, ghost. how did you die? how many harpoons were struck through your heart? did they peel off your skin and scrape away your blubber? it doesn’t matter anymore. name something they took from your body after killing you, and why they wanted it.
2. decomposition.
the water around you teems with those looking to feed on what’s left of your gore. by now it is less terrifying to witness how much lives, in spite of your passing, but sometimes the water still hums with your jealousy. what’s it like down here? are you lonely? how does it feel to be eaten? it doesn’t hurt.
3. bones.
they’re chewing up the organic matter left in your marrow. you grew these bones yourself. how have they protected you? how long have you survived their hunting? the thing that men stole from you: how has it saved you from them in the past?
4. exhaustion.
there’s little else left. you live on in all who’ve fed on you, but all we’d call your body is gone. what’s your final dream? now rest, ghost; sleep.