You, sterile survivor,
once hid my beauty in your power—
but now I see you pretend to be whole.
And you, stone statue, with an eroded smile,
can only pretend you’re content.
And you puddle like a tide pool on my island—
though once I sunk like a pebble into your depths.
I was blind then, hanging over death,
reaching for your salvation—
but you were a vine of thorns.
You scraped me, blood flowed down,
down I fell, my bleeding hands
held my face. . .
But the crash resolved me,
replaced all my fear with strength.
Now you will churn in my storm.
I will drag you down and spit you back up.
You will drown in your guilt invisibly.
My water—it shakes with fury.
And one day again, I’ll grow souls in my soil.
I will nurture the roots of humanity.
And you, just a pile of dried up seeds,
and you, just a puddle of stranded sea,
will go back to the earth silently
or fizzle like steam in the street at dawn. . .
You are a vapor. Dissolving, gone.