I feel stagnant on the shoreline
watching them adrift on a yacht,
a speck of white against grey and stale blue.
There’s salt in my mouth and
hate on my tongue
and I just want to build up a sandcastle and kick
it over and stomp upon it because I don’t
know what else to do except be childish
and alone
and lay upon the shoreline,
watching the phantasmagoria of lights play and shadowed silhouettes twist in social dance,
until the tide comes in and binds my mouth
with seaweed and my thoughts with tentacles so I can
suffocate my anger because I hate it
swimming here inside my saturated mind.
I want to drag you out like undertow and fill your orifices with foam and
and sea-stones rubbed smooth by years of your rough push and pull.
I’ve balanced my life in the palm of my hand,
but now I want to scissor it from my body because it’s so full of
nothing.