I cannot wash the sea from my mind nor the ink from my skin; let me surrender to the mania in ink. Let me live where I don’t have to think about the looming eternal blink. I live my life on that eternal brink, on the edge of the forgotten, leaning over with weary arms to drag my overboard heart up from the depths where it has swam alongside my demons.
I can’t help if this ship is destined to sink, I can’t help that the sirens singing to me from the abyssal sea are sometimes of more appeal to me than the air I breathe. I cannot help the way my demons linger against my skin like my sinking lovers lost at sea.
Lovers like gentle Nicotine with her voice of addiction, a husky smoke-low lull in the shame of my mind whispering “breathe me, breathe me” with the call of a siren plucked fresh from the sea.
Anxiety and her passionate claws against my back, chest to breast, her breath stealing mine, a toxic lover I never wanted but nonetheless get; another siren dragging me out to sea.
Depression and heavy hands running down my legs to weigh like a shackle and chain I cannot escape, salt water pouring down my face while my hands shake.
Forget not, my greatest demon, the lord to the rest; Self-Destruction and the relentless mutiny of me against me.
I down the mast, I slash the sail, I pull the hull apart by the nails.
I live, a dull and battered shell, within this infinitely personalized hell. I live with these die hard bastard lovers unseen with silent marks against my skin, stark white scars, little pox marks with a thousand lies to them on my arms, my legs, my chest... I sail this Skeleton of a ship that feels more like the ghost of me. Bring me the sea, if just so these lovers are drawn away, bring the Kraken to drag me down to the realm of the Mer; bring me down to the crushing depth so I may fade away like ink spilt in the sea.
Bring me a storm woven of my frayed heartstrings on the loom made from the broken handle on my life. Give me a storm spun with the bitterness in my empty chest as the spindle, bring me the tattered lace of my finer sensibilities and weave it in at the end of my rope with the last threads of my hope. Bring me the storm so I can drown the haunting thought of my four years gone Elijah Wade on his little moth wings; with his big blue eyes and tousled auburn curls, small grabbing hands and round little cheeks.
Let this storm of ire and lividity again carry away this painful memory; my beloved button son. Of the waves I beg, wash away the spent life so small and grey. Sand scrub me clean of the tainted dream; the child that never grew.
Scrub from my eyes the tears long unshed for the lies, scrub away the phantom pains, scrape from my skin the sensation of kicks I never felt.
I need the coast to wash the sea from my mind, to wash away my Elijah Wade. He was due in July 2016, little Leo never to be.
Wash away these intruding thoughts of first words and birthdays to the first and second degree; cleanse my heart of the fact he would be nearing already a fourth.
Bring me the sea, because I’d rather feel that salt in my fresh wound over the fact my choices would have been mine, mine alone. Wash away this cherubic visage behind my eyes, banish the ghost of his small hands in mine that I never held proper, wash away the boyish smile with my father’s name to it. Ocean please roll in and batter me, break me, make me feel beyond the barren chill in my heart. It’s sad and I know, I've known, too keenly, how much he hasn't grown; how little of a chance he had to.
I just want for a second to escape the memory, but it remains through the tears, the rain, the waves... many I've loved now belong to the sea.
No amount of sand can scrub from my soul the name, nor can all the water in the ocean wash away my Elijah Wade.
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