I just want to go back to the ocean, where my hair could be green and my voice could be loud at all the right times and I was a virgin, and I could go out on the deck at night to let the grey back into me.
I think I need to go back to the ocean, to sit on that great wooden thing and stare teary-eyed out, thinking about where the wind comes from and if I'll ever go back inside again - I want to see the stars before I die.
I need to go back to the ocean, now, because I haven't been this winter and I miss it, I need to sit on my seaweed throne again and go places and be things and talk to the tide, I need to bring my love there and we'll see what happens, maybe he won't know what I've done when I walk out and drown myself to make the voices stop, I won't know much either, then.
Life on the land hurts me, chaps and cracks me in the most uncomfortable ways - I don't think I want to be warm and dry anymore. I want to be cold and sinking and quiet with my eyes closed, and visit my great-grandmother and tell her my secrets because she died before I could and maybe she'll let me sleep and I'll sleep and be happy, finally happy, where happy means numb.
I'm not sad anymore. I've let the grey back out of me and I've had a life the past year, I've been growing, but wouldn't it always be easier to drown?
Casually suicidal seems like a good mood to be in when I visit the sea, to hear it's songs and smell its existence and cry.
