by Sajita, 17
Teetering on the edge of survival
The horizon is bleak and clouded
for the shells that used to protect
my soft abdomen are weak and
The edge of Tartarus is far too near
Sinking past the aphotic zone,
I am pulled in by lightlessness
glowing and growing like algae bloom.
It calls my name.
It. calls. my. name.
and I float down
with jelly-like plastic bags
and mollusk-like baseball caps.
A fake shell, perhaps.
Hermits live in secondary-homes.
They live alone,
becoming one with nature
so as to find their soul.
Soft is their underbelly
for they were not born warriors,
with armor tough as steel.
No, they were born scavengers.
Picking up the fallen sins of mankind,
recycling them into blessings,
fighting the tide of in-humanity.
I am small and for now
I reside in the decadent halls
of a plastic shhhh- hell
resting in the benthic layer.
The darkness, growing from sins left to fester,
consumes the 1% lightness
And us Hermit Crabs,
the last hope for human-kind,
oh, when we die
oh, when you leave us to die,
we will drag you down,
to the abysm that is Tartarus
and down there
you and I
are not so different as we seem.
Written in Response to "Manatee/Humanity" by Anne Waldman