Apr 2015
When the ocean broke,
I asked if the hurricane current in our mouths would disappear.
She told me “Hopefully never.”
I asked her why
and she replied with “because this will be the only chance
we can swim unforgivably under thunderstorm skies.”
I haven’t touched the sand
scratching the rocking boat in my throat in two years
for fear of throwing up seaweed I keep telling my friends is courage.
They call it whiskey breath and cigarettes.
I call it being misunderstood. I
forgot what summer skin tasted like
but I can remember the smell of sunscreen and her hair.
It’s a sunburned scar everyone winds up leaving on my shoulders,
they tell me to always apply spf 50
as if it’s my fault I’ve only walked on eggshells for 23 years.
No one likes a person with capabilities of expressing how they feel.
It’s like taking a shower with a tshirt on, a layer of
an outer skin that’s entirely not mine changing the
hue of my pink skin to a shade that’s “flattering” for my “figure”.
When I was a little girl the only thing I wanted was to
run wildly through the jungles of red thread carpet naked,
completely aware of how obscene I would look but **** I was fierce,
shy around everyone but myself,
unapologetic for the romance conducted in my head,
I should have ran an orchestra, leading the rhythm of my soul around the bones of Little Me.
It would have been beautiful but instead I let the
pieces of my spine
break in sprinkles dusting cupcakes
I would throw away when no one was looking.
It was like I was afraid of the thick frosting sticking to the walls of my
throat like peanut butter,
or words when I’ve lost myself in the theory and potential of someone
I desperately want to love.
The only time you accept yourself is when there is someone else
holding you at night because your breathing is matched with
someone who doesn’t understand why you reached for a
cigarette in the first place.
I do not understand myself.
And that is entirely okay as long as I am laying naked,
under July sun,
covered in Long Beach Island sand screaming I am sorry
for the little girl I had been and how very different I am now.
I asked if the hurricane current in our mouths would disappear.
She told me “Hopefully never.”
I asked her why
and she replied with “because this will be the only chance
we can swim unforgivably under thunderstorm skies.”
I haven’t touched the sand
scratching the rocking boat in my throat in two years
for fear of throwing up seaweed I keep telling my friends is courage.
They call it whiskey breath and cigarettes.
I call it being misunderstood. I
forgot what summer skin tasted like
but I can remember the smell of sunscreen and her hair.
It’s a sunburned scar everyone winds up leaving on my shoulders,
they tell me to always apply spf 50
as if it’s my fault I’ve only walked on eggshells for 23 years.
No one likes a person with capabilities of expressing how they feel.
It’s like taking a shower with a tshirt on, a layer of
an outer skin that’s entirely not mine changing the
hue of my pink skin to a shade that’s “flattering” for my “figure”.
When I was a little girl the only thing I wanted was to
run wildly through the jungles of red thread carpet naked,
completely aware of how obscene I would look but **** I was fierce,
shy around everyone but myself,
unapologetic for the romance conducted in my head,
I should have ran an orchestra, leading the rhythm of my soul around the bones of Little Me.
It would have been beautiful but instead I let the
pieces of my spine
break in sprinkles dusting cupcakes
I would throw away when no one was looking.
It was like I was afraid of the thick frosting sticking to the walls of my
throat like peanut butter,
or words when I’ve lost myself in the theory and potential of someone
I desperately want to love.
The only time you accept yourself is when there is someone else
holding you at night because your breathing is matched with
someone who doesn’t understand why you reached for a
cigarette in the first place.
I do not understand myself.
And that is entirely okay as long as I am laying naked,
under July sun,
covered in Long Beach Island sand screaming I am sorry
for the little girl I had been and how very different I am now.
