there are days when my room turns into an ocean and i, a shipwreck of the person i used to be. i know i'm supposed to save myself — they tell me i'm supposed to clutch onto a lifeline of heartbeats attached to the shore, that i'm supposed to drain these night-tides dry. but my sadness is born from the seafoam and the seafoam — it's everywhere.

it's everywhere.

they tell me i'm supposed to save myself, that i'm supposed to sink my maelstroms on the bleakest of the sea beds. but how do i tell them that i am the maelstrom that needs destroying? how do i tell them that i have become the love child of melancholia and of the ocean after the storm? they tell me i'm supposed to live — i tell myself i'm supposed to live. but today, i'm quite okay with sinking into the depths the ocean floor.

today, i'm quite okay with not saving myself. today, i'm quite okay with drowning.