I am nothing like the ocean.
I crave the day I find that buoyancy, that flaccidity.
I do not have depths that hold
glorious mysteries and love songs.
I cannot hold up a ship, nor evaporate into thin air.
     I have no drop off.
No unknown mass overflowing with striking secrets, begging to be discovered.
I am n o t h i n g like that.
There is nothing shocking about my existence,
and if I were to finally fall between the cracks,
I’m not sure if you would notice.
I am only able to be waded through, to slowly numb you
Inch       by           inch.
So tell me,
does that make me an unlovable monster?
Or a merciful victim?

All I know is that there is such a fine line
between being a doormat and a brick wall.
But just know this-
if I ever find the gray area, I will be unstoppable.

Throw me out to sea.
They say mermaids exist in the cracks
of broken souls,
so shatter me like a mirror
and make me beautiful
because there's nothing lovelier than an
adventurer of the salty waters.
I just want people to fall in love with
each other and old ships
when they feel the absence of sound and the
quake of my lungs.
Peace originates on the ocean floor,
and that is where you'll find me.

I waited in the emergency room for your call,
but it was quiet and I was shaking-
boiling blood and clammy hands don't mix well,
and eventually I erupted,
spewing bottled up grief and words I knew
I would want to take back, but you just make me so mad
and I needed you that day ice covered the back roads
to your house, I needed those warm, airy bluffs
you're so gifted with to thaw my numbing mind,
I needed your rough hands when the steering wheel ****** right
and I had lost all control of who I was and where I was going,
but you don't even know the story of why I have this gaping hole
that only your attention can fill,
and you don't know why I get goosebumps
when you stand up or tell me to grow up, because it all started
with a little girl who grew up too early- the problem now
is that you are the solution but I am
insoluble with everything you say.

You leaned over me, your breath like heavy fog on the lake, and I could smell fear but I was so confused; I was 5000 feet underwater and my house of cards was swaying. Shouldn't I be the prey that's surrounded by crop circles? I can still feel the guilt gnawing away at the transparent barrier between filth and innocence when I realized the invitation with my name on it was addressed from me to you, and I'm pinned with my arms wide open, welcoming your poisonous hands and addicting whispers to scrape my layers away the expose the truth behind these scars and bullet holes. I was ordered behind these bars to sculpt a new girl who didn't pretend to like pop music and nail polish, but it was harder to be myself and dig up old records and alibis then to find fake friends with fake tans and boyfriends who tossed them around like rag dolls. We looked like them, though, and gluing on eyelashes is simpler than embracing my love for big words and literary tools everyone in class groans over. I'm still getting used to not being the same as everyone else and solving each flaw in my life so I can re-sculpt it into a falling star for you to wish on when we're sleeping and not *******, because that's when we really need the love of our past.