i will have entered my eighteenth year
knowing that
it will be my fourth year of sorrow.
there is a riptide coming for me
and i can see it from the pier.
this poem will have so many periods
in the hopes that it will be a flimsy defence against the churning
obsidian mass that is coming,
coming,
coming.
advancing like a predator.
everything is different from before;
there is a dewy mist that settles on my arms.
oh, my poor arms, uncovered
and riddled with goosebumps,
not even a cardigan.
tell me how i can stop this despair from getting me.
did i mean to say getting to me?
stop this despair, stop this-
i am so tired, but there are no seats on the pier.