anathema

It's raining. The white concrete
turns a dingy gray as drop by
drop plops and splatters, each
raindrop that full
and that fatal.

Dressed in black, I complement
the graying sidewalk like a bruise
complements pale skin, though
no bruises grace my cold paleness
because a bruise is just pooling blood
and my blood is not my own.

My hair curls from the dampness
but it does not grow damp.
My footfalls echo as if in a mausoleum
but this sidewalk, rain-flecked, could be anywhere.
I do not grow tired, I do not get wet,
for my kind, ancient as lust,
as death, as black as blood,
my kind walks between the raindrops.

* * * *

The fire of the sea is in my blood,
burning my heart blue with longing.
Icy pearls course through my veins,
twisting my body in cramps of remorse.
Green and emerald kelp binds me to the floor
of a sea that crushes me, forcing me
to slow and stop struggling, stop fighting.
An inky hand reaches into my lungs,
squeezing them until even pain
seems as natural as breathing.
It replaces that age old luxury
and when seaweed-haired maidens find me
trapped, alone, they come to my side
stroke my lathered brow, draw me near.
Their sea-born voices sing me to a sleep
where pain dissolves and even
the brackish water is made breathable
its salt no longer stinging my black lungs.