I feel the tide dragging me under.
I’m asleep, the pillows soft,
As the dream-water efficiently,
Captures the movement of my breath,
Like fisherman catch fish,
They don’t intend to throw back,
Into the sea.
An old ache starts in my wrists,
But it’s a familiar, friendly pain,
It’s telling me my body is shouting something,
The way out, in front of me,
But I’m distracted by the sea.
This welling of drowsy terror,
That lives in the cells of my skin,
Multiplying like the formation of crystals,
I have no space to breathe.
My grandmother died, and an aunt,
One I hate,
Pointed to an heirloom turquoise necklace.
She told my mother to give it to me,
I’ve worn it.
Worn it many times, but it doesn’t cover the tiring deceit.
My body feels fractured. Loose and tight,
Buried in a relentless tide,
And I don’t mean to be dramatic, but,
With this drowsy terror,
I forget sometimes that I’m awake.
I’ve felt the lies ‘my family’ told,
Burrow deep into my fibre.
It’s a shame that’s old, and like a fire,
All consuming in its need to destroy.
The tide that overwhelms my breath,
Should dampen the flames of a disgrace that is not mine,
Instead, it reminds me that my cells multiplied because theirs were here first.
It’s a strange sort of thirst, to beg for refreshment,
When the sea has already taken my words.
It’s odd that I would want to play with a fire that has, all to often, laughed at the burns it gives me –
Deep, deep in my abdomen.
Nestled in my wrists.
Wriggling in my head.
What a shame, its not been gifted to them instead.
I am pulled, always, to horizons that are new.
Places or people that can make me forget that I knew,
An overwhelming tide of blood, my blood should have recognised.
They stole my breath away when I was a child.
I don’t know how to call it back.
I know it’s my responsibility,
As I dream, the tide pulls me under.
At least, my pillows are soft.