The blood is in the water. But the water is warm and the blood is my own and when you bleed out slowly the feeling is earnest and soothing. They say sharks can smell the sweetness of injury from miles out to sea. I can’t envision them motioning a snout to the currents, sniffing like caricatures but I can see their shadows from above, casting sleek shapes along the imaginary seafloor. I sense them circling. Like ghosts. Like memories. Silent as knife blades.