I’m crying on the cliffs,
days away from Dover,
twisting and twirling in the wind,
so far from home and never able to return.
Burned out, once the brightest star,
falling to bruised, scratched up knees in my wedding dress,
falling with my usual drama into the surrounding flowers as I scream silently at the sea.
My ringless finger gawps up with the most accusatory tone and I scold it for setting off the tears again,
my eyes at war with the waves below,
and what’s it all for?
She is just a girl.
She is just one of many.
Just somebody to wake up to.
Just somebody to hold close.
Just somebody to live for.
She’s not someone to die for, surely?
Surely this is the moment where I manifest a life of self sufficiency?
She doesn’t want me,
but maybe the ocean does?
It stares up from below the cliffs,
hungry for my salty tears and luscious lips,
but this is not self sufficiency.
You can’t stand on your own two feet if you’ve drowned.
This was supposed to be the end,
but I’m right back where I started,
supplying the sea with the finest quality of heartbreak,
because as it all turns out,
living life as God made you is arduous.
He’s back again.
but a God fearing man who gave up on good behaviour long ago,
and had the misfortune to fall in love with me.
He kisses me,
oblivious to my resistance.
His tears taste as bland as his lips,
and I feel like a bitch for not caring that he still cares,
after all this time, and all this rejection.
He knows that we are broken bits of different puzzles,
never capable of fitting together,
but he still sits in the sand, stewing and sobbing as he pushes the pieces together, with no hope of a happier ending.
I fall from grace,
from the cliffs,
to the waiting ocean as he wails, and she waves,
because it’s another place to hide,
but the ocean has no limits,
so maybe I will find freedom there.
I’ve always wanted to make out with a mermaid, you know.