Over and under
I bob through waves,
praying for still waters.

The rot in my bones
hasn’t sunk me yet—
yet I’m wayfinding,
losing sight
and finding it again.

Catching the silver of the sea
in sunlight’s reflection,
I feel the breath of whales
as they breach
and exhale.

I drift among cephalopods,
and in between the spines of sea urchins—
each one urging me
so swiftly
back ashore.

And I wonder
if we,
humans,
are a tragic
flaw in nature.

I did the scary thing—
the thing I swore I couldn’t do.
The memories,
locked in my skull,
screamed ****** threats,
seared my skin
each time they dared
to be remembered,
spoken,
or written down.

But now—
now, now—
I did the scary thing.

I laid on paper
the story that hollowed me,
that clawed from the inside out,
scratching and screaming
at the walls of my mind,
pressing a knife to my skull each day,
reminding me of things
I wished were never true.

I did the scary thing—
the thing I could never do before.
I told my story to paper,
to the silent, waiting
record keeper.

I wouldn’t mind
a slow
drifting
into love—
with time enough
to look around,
to listen close,
to ask the sea
if this
is truly
the shore
for me.

I have waited
for permission
all my life—
the approval
and agreement
of others
I thought
were greater than me.

So please,
listen closely:
here is the key—
to open, to unlock
every door
you will ever see.

I am giving you
permission—
but, lovely,
you never needed it.

So go,
go-
permission free.