Beachisms

I'm wrong

Sour like milk still sold but thrown out at the first sip

I'm twisted

Two-faced like compliments made out of contempt

I'm lonely

Heavy like the quiet of an early morning after a sleepless night

I'm bitter

Stoic like the angels carved high above the grave

I'm stretched-out

Ripping at the edges like clay slowly drying

I'm awake

Floating like a bottle whose messenger has long-since starved

I'm delirious

Fluctuating like a grenade you'll never feel