It’s hard to breathe, the water so murky. Pieces of pure fat float down, while other pieces I don’t think about. Fat fingers press the glass, they’re taunting me. They are keeping me trapped, above me is burning hell, the tortured souls of my blood. I’m waiting for my turn.
Who knew fish were weirdly poetic? I saw this photo in Year 9 science class about convection. It’s really cool how it works. ANYWAY, the prompt just kind of brought it back.