Coral Sands, Myrtle Beach

hotel rooms swallow up your secrets,
spit them out to bones cleaned, raw
content with no age restrictions- if
you can fake it, you can stay-

something about the salt has faded
years of paint from broken walls,
made tired faces out of waitresses,
bartenders speak with no words
at all, just a twisted pull that could be
a smile; you breathe in at night and it’s
just the sea filling heavy your briny
lungs with all the places
you’ll never
be-

don’t heed to the hurricane warnings;
we’re better off getting ripped away from
the luster stolen through the sunlight;
this is an ugly place by day and you
might paint paradise, like Dante whisper
to your long-lost love but first you’re
on your tour of hell and it’s a far
hard climb to up above all paved with
plastic chipped-paint palm trees, neon
spun in lurid frames, pastel hotels
with rusted railing-

where no one has to know your
name where no one has to know
you came.

By Lindsay Maruska

Biography:

Lindsay Maruska is a thirty-year-old forever student who is pursuing a second MA degree while raising one child and five dogs. She is interested in modern mythology and the intersection of regional gothic and social commentary on industrial ruin.