picture this: i'm 11.

new macy's two-piece bathing suit.
i like the colors.
you hate my stomach.

summer.
"why can't i wear my new suit?"
"because nobody wants to see a beached whale."

i do not wear it to the beach.
i dive into our golden lake,
your tongue-blade
muted among the surf.

i am beautifully alone,
but i do not wish to be.
the silence is enough of a gift.

you say "beached whale"
and expect it to hurt,

and it does. but not how you wanted.

i am a beached whale. 16 years later
a creature only meant to observe and love,
i was pushed out of the water,
to drown in your desert air.

i am learning to swim again.

i will break your harpoon.