seashell

i’ve always loved the beach, and how gorgeous it looks when wind whips through the trees, as the ice-cold waves crash, and roar, and soak through my jeans.

or how sometimes, if i close my eyes, i can pretend i’m the only person left in the universe. just for a little bit. scream at the sky until i’ve got nothing left to give.

which is just… a really melodramatic way of saying that i don’t think i can do this. and i’m curling into myself, i’m rotting into the ground, and holding onto history by a thread.

so i’ll hold it like a sad, half-rotten seashell, in my frozen palms. and please, just give me something to write. anything. a wilting sonnet, or a sleepy haiku.

and pull me back to shore. because the water is rough, and cold, and i just want to go home. where everything was safe, and warm, and everything makes sense.

but i don’t even know where that place is anymore.

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