It's hard to admit at times,
how deep I've sunk.
When it all began
I thought I was manipulative
smart;
the way I could "pretend" not to care
so I could escape the shipwrecks I  inspired.
At the time I was so preoccupied with my fears
to notice just how much I'd disappear
It seems so inexplicable to care all too much
and suddenly
swiftly
so terrifyingly numb.
And sometimes it's everything
in every wake of blood coursing through my veins
the fear
the numbness
the pain
draining to vacuity, to ruin,
And in the waves bring immeasurable unease
disrupting an ocean of deafening speechlessness.
Some days are easier,
calmer,
some days are ******* impossible.
And always it seems much easier
to rest,
to sleep,
to collapse into the foamy rapids,
then to swim against the riptide;
And despite the efforts I've drawn in sand
the allure of the sea floor is present at all times.
But it always gets better,
though admittingly this bubble is hard to remember.


*In constant flow the sea is me,
chaotic, dark, free,
and so devistatingly beautiful,
a never ending cycle of
birth and death and continuity.