I am not like the ocean in that I've got waves flowing down my back or the warmth of the sand in my hands or the voice of a hundred seagulls harmonizing in sync when they land.
I am not like the ocean in that I can wrap myself around you, engulf you, show you a world you've never dreamed of, full of life and mystery and depth.

I am the lost limbs and home-wrecking tsunamis.
I am the high tide that tickles toddler's toes and pulls them in with each giggle when their moms glance away for a tiny second.
I am unknown and anonymous and dangerous to explore,
not miraculous.
I sting, strangle, bite, drown, and rip with no remorse.
I am like the darkest parts of the ocean, full of creatures with teeth you've never seen and an intense lust, hunger, and greed.
Full of lost skeletons and deflated floaties and engines from submarines.
I am like the ocean in that once you're in too deep,
once you're too far out at sea,
if you don't have the breath or the energy
to somehow find your way back to the beach,
I am ruthless and I will pull you under and then it will be too late,
you know?
And you'll be just another abandoned snorkel on the jagged rocks below.

And as much as I want to be the exhilarating parts of the sea for you,
all I can offer is the salt in me.