Oceans

I was 13 years old and had never been to the beach. By that time in my life, I had never done a lot of things, never kissed a boy, never learned how to swim or ride a bike or tie my shoes “the right way” because apparently the bunny had to go through the cave and under the ear or something but why was there a bunny and why couldn’t the bunny ear strangle the other one and leave the way I tie my shoes alone, why did it have to go through the cave and why are we comparing shoe laces to a cave, I just never understood. And while I still may not know how to ride a bike, there were so many amazing firsts. The first time I went to the beach, I almost cried. I still have a cup full of stones and shells that I was so mesmerized by at the time, I didn’t realize almost half were pistachio shells and the color of the rocks change when they’re not wet, they lose their shimmer, they’re not as beautiful when you look at them for what they are without the main attraction. I didn’t care when I cut my foot on the glass bottles in the rough waves because the water was so beautiful, all because I was at the beach. And the beach was beautiful. And everyone loved the beach. And I remember experiencing the same thing when I met you. You had beautiful ocean eyes, moon eyes that caused the tides in me to dance and I ignored the waves of doubt you pulled forth, let them roll over the shore and beat between the sand in my toes. Some days I’d spend all my time on this beach between the skies in your eyes and your faults beneath my feet. I didn’t notice when I cut my feet on your rough edges, didn’t notice that the pieces of you that hid between my teeth weren’t as beautiful by themselves, they were just bloody pieces in the only spaces I’d let you find but I didn’t care because it was you. And you were exquisitely beautiful. And I loved you. I found boy on your lips and man in your mouth, found my forever in the cracks in your palms when you’d run them through my hair. Our memories are sand, salt water tears streaming down my face and I still haven’t fully scrubbed the pieces of you from my body. And you’ve washed away so many of mine. You swept me off my feet quicker than I’ve lost sandals in the ocean and believe me, I’ve lost myself in you so many times I’m still wringing sea water from my bones. Honestly, I could go on and on about the poetic ways I’ve let you carefully take pieces of me like Jenga blocks, to make it sound beautiful, make it sound like you didn’t rip me apart in the ugliest ways, like the towers, the walls in me weren’t falling with every touch, every guard I let down. Sometimes I wonder if perhaps I rip open my skin because I’m tired of seeing the blue of your eyes in my veins. I don’t know if I’ll ever fully recover the bits of me you have beneath your nails, in your hair, my soul splashing in your morning coffee. But I do know that I will grow like the skin cells around the holes you’ve left. I will grow new life from the dirt you’ve left, leaflets sprouting from my fingers, my hands, every place you’ve let you liquid hands roam, I will grow life in the midst of the death you almost gave. I will grow. I don’t know if I’ll learn to ride a bike. I will kiss a new boy. I’ll swim somewhere else. I will still tie my shoelaces the same way because some things never change. Much like the ache I feel when I’m driving by the beach, missing the way the water wrapped around me, startling with cold hands, watching the sun set in vibrant oranges and yellows and purples, seagulls crying a love song to it’s waters, gripping the sand beneath my fingers and I can still smell your scent in the salty air.  

(a.w.)