Paddling,
angry, tired, cold
looking for the break, the undertow,
or a way to blend into the sea.
They are here now
mocking me, dancing on the yellow, spit colored foam.
I curse them, and with each foul word I scream
I punch her,
again and again and again and again.
She has the nerve to bleed.
As the saltwater mixes with my dark red blood, it streams
across the bubbles of surf wax
that were applied in another time
a happy time, a time that held hope and promise,
when the smell of surf wax and salt air still brought me peace.
This day casts only angry watery shadows,
across the dark, murky medium
where only days before, I would not have dared go.
We were all here now,
I cannot find the cork
and even if I could, they won’t go back in the bottle.
I dig deep into the salty depths, slicing my hands on the
unwelcoming icy water,
offering her more blood.
But it never seems enough.
I wonder,
does the ocean have a drain?
Numb.
Peace, always….Chris
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