I want to talk to people,
to leak onto their fingertips, through dried ink,
to be carried around by absent minded hands for the rest of the day,
stuck in the back of their mind, or the back of their throat, like a strong flavour or an even stronger memory that hurts so badly to think about.
I spent my childhood obsessing over being remembered,
because I didn’t think I’d make it this far into adulthood,
I’m aimless and awestruck,
wondering how I’ll be remembered when I’m gone, because I have now been here too long.
I was supposed to be something fleeting,
short but sweet,
the kind of girl who just disappears into dark nights and is never heard from again,
the kind of girl who lives in the air and never shares too much of herself.
I thought I’d wave goodbye on the beach,
blowing a kiss to the setting sun as I waded into my second birth,
the water, avid and endless around my legs and my waist as I went to waste in the sea’s sweetness.
I couldn’t do it.
Changed plans and cowardice.
I spent my whole life, waiting for it to end and then something in me decided to try again,
and now I’m waking up,
just to look at myself in the mirror and ask my reflection how she’s feeling.
She always lies, which is deeply unhelpful,
and I fantasise about what I could be now if I had let the water love me as she would have liked.
Is it ever worth it?
I always ask,
but then I start shouting and screaming before an answer comes,
because I don’t want to hear it.
I don’t want to know.