No one talks of the way you have to teach yourself to be a person again. Understanding that you and only you can pull yourself from the riptide and move against the current. You must will yourself to swim. Or you resign yourself to drown.
Your toes will graze the sand as your neck aches to face the moon. And your head bobs above the water, choking on wave after wave that carries you further and further away from the safety of the shore, slamming you into the rocks and leaving you dazed, and breathless, and scared. So scared. But don't cry. No— you mustn't cry. Your tears are wasted in the ocean.
And still you do it every day. You paint the grin, and say a silent prayer, hoping the mask does not wash off in the waves. You learn to fight. To swim. You train yourself to endure the violence of the water, even if it means knowing when to hold your breath beneath the surface.
And even on the days when the sea enters your lungs, and the salt burns your nose and your throat and your whole body ripples as it heaves and shakes until there is nothing left inside of you, and you lay beached and broken on the shore. Still, you must breathe. You must straighten yourself against the sun, as you wait for the tide to return.
AE Greene
02.12.2024
YOU ARE READING
Greener | A Collection of Poems
PoetryA collection of poems and pieces for when you are waiting for the world to be green again. TW: Mental Illness, Death, SA
