When tears dribble down my face
they taste like ocean that suffocates my every breath and seizes me into the ceaseless nothingness of the midnight stained water.
It’s like the moon and the stars were handpicked out of the moon’s sleeping bag,
obliterated from the sky for the night
and all that once had light is now an endless flailing, trying to break the water and get to the oxygen
and endless wailing out for help and feeling the current keep the air held hostage,
just to be kept away from me
from my lungs because I can’t stop that salty watered ocean from hosing me down, drenching me until my gag reflex has been eclipsed
almost exactly like the moon.
the ones that taste like the ocean,
they are my ocean.
Because to me,
those soggy face masks are my entire sea
And I’ve always loved to play in the water
Well I guess now I’m wading through the waves with each step.
Be careful what you wish for they told me, but I never thought this was going to be the reason I screwed up.
But I guess it wasn’t the water that got me here, nor was it my wishes or intentions.
It was the voice in my head.
The little echo that radiated the pessimistic thoughts I produced every now and then
there wasn’t an abundance of them but when I would get down they were certainly there
but I never thought, that that tiny little voice would crumple me up like the shredded writing the voice told me to tear apart because my it wasn’t good enough
little did I know, I was tearing myself up too.
When I cry in the bathroom stalls at lunch, people knock on my door about once a week
someone comes up to me and tells me they heard the sobs
it’s not often a person is like that
and that just makes those sobs turn into hallucinations of that sea once again,
but then again they don’t really feel like hallucinations
when my vision is blurred to the state of an instagram filter
and the salt has begun not to sting my cracked perception
because of my unfortunate tolerance that I’ve spent years building stronger.
Sometimes I think I’m better off in the ocean,
so I try to spend my time there,
in the dark hollows of my mind,
where the blackest black mascara lines that streak down my face don’t matter
in fact, they’re encouraged.
Because the voices in my head are the tears that I shed
and with every last drop
I keep having such naivete that I can cry the pain away
if only I can spill each tear out with a pill
then the insecurity I feel might become a void I steal
away from my mind and into the shrine
of the open breeze skidding on the water.
This isn't about me particularly, but I think there's a part of this kind of person in all of us sometimes.