Unable To Find Love On Land, And Told She Was Unappetizing By Her Siren Of The Sea, The Sailor Girl Sought

You weren’t there on the mountain

when its last glacier melted,

You weren’t there in the river

when it’s water ran empty,

You weren’t there by the ocean

when it’s body rested over much of the land.

You didn’t watch the dying happen, but nonetheless, it happened. And one sunny day, when the skyscrapers stand hollow, and the cars don’t run, and the world’s heart has beat its last,

You won’t be there.

The girl I was and the woman I am reconcile in tides. Coursing warm waves and biting cold foam, dancing in circles. Becoming one another, and abandoning one’s self in permanence.

Depression is driving a car dry, no oil, no gas, just habit. Nothing slows, people die, jobs disappear, experiences pass. Everything is a miraculous colorful blur that illicits no feeling in you. You remember that it used to and this pricks your fingers with drops of sadness. It grinds you down, your body grows weary. What doesn’t kill you right away doesn’t make you stronger, it just takes it’s time. And that’s all you have, sitting in your hands like a steering wheel stuck straight, propelling you ever forward. Never caring to ask if you’re ready, if it hurts. Depression is driving a car dry because that’s all you know how to do. To keep going even though you’ve nothing left.

My skin prickles with heat,

Dropping doves on laundry lines

My heart leaps hard against my ribs,

Shelving sonograms in my mind,

Oh dear. I am in love.

I can’t explain the joy I feel. And isn’t that so wonderful isn’t that so perfect to have a problem doppled in sugar and cherries with pits you suck on until they are bare in your mouth.

I had abandoned all intelligence seeing as it got the world nowhere. Maybe in a good world, with good people, advancements would forward us and make us more humane, lessen suffering, feed the hungry, clothe the naked and so on.

But put knowledge in the hands of a brute and he grows ever crueler.

Melodic, melismatic is she. Her song is her figure dancing in air, steam rising ever out of reach.

Our screams were never songs. Is that what you’ve been hearing all this time?

-Diary of a siren

I belong to my animals as much as they belong to me. I am no owner, and they are no beasts.

In another world, I am strong. And withstanding, and sure of myself. I pray she’s well, for I certainly am not.