the best way to be ruined

oceans and metaphors

You showed me your palms and I only saw a graveyard. I feel like I could bury myself in those hands and nobody will come and dig me up. Nobody, even you will treat me like a weed worth uprooting. Sometimes I look at a person and I don't see another life. Maybe just another place to hide, like an island or a cave under the sea. But earlier, you're too busy preparing the eggs and luncheon meat for our mini breakfast session and I knew I could stare without making you feel a little conscious. I suddenly realized I wasn't on an island. We are no cavemen. We're young people who are unexpectedly adults now and our apartment may not be the best but it's clean because you're hella good at scrubbing and sweeping and soaking everything in soap. I love your cooking. I love your fascination about spices and how you told me we'll travel the world just to gather those perfect spices that could make this egg extra special. You are my very own Magellan. I realized one more thing. That I was not hiding. Not at all. In fact, you've explored my body often enough to call it an ocean. You know the tides very well. Where the mermaids gather their pearls, where the tornadoes form and break. You know I'm home and I've reached the shoreline because you smell seawater. Everywhere. I bring sands and pebbles in the living room and you don't mind cleaning up. You don't mind because you know very well that there are days when I'm calm once again. Not a single roar. That I'll take you again with me and you don't have to unlearn drowning because you've memorized my depths. You know I am an ocean and I get angry too. I swallow the sunset sometimes and when I throw up, I burn you in the process. Yet you still paint me full of whites and blues, skies all clear and dreamy. I appreciate it. It's not lying. You dive in my water and I'm so glad this is all just a metaphor because I can't imagine not being able to touch you back. I can't imagine this kind of love and not being solid.