I’m here at Pier 9, gasping, trying to figure out what life would have tasted like unstuck from the tide, if I had let myself be a soil bride. Do you ever get like that? Maybe you want to bury yourself in the sand, let the violent sea rip your bones away, hope I choke on them a bit, hope your sailing right hook bloodies my lip? No, you wouldn’t. You’re a cherry blossom kiss & rubber band blue wrist. You’re the nursery rhyme Poseidon hoped would scare, but inflection never dressed you terribly, with less tempt. The truth is, you still hold sway over my unforgiving flesh. They hear me. I cry out & the tips of my fingers no longer find your soft sandy hair. Your soft sex voice no longer pebbles my surface skin. They hold me under. They make me take leave from drowning. They make me see it. You are gone.
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The above poem is from Dark Mermaid Song.