i stepped in like i meant it. no tiptoeing. no half-arsed hesitations. the tide met me mid-thigh with that hush-hum promise it saves for the fed up and wrung out. stubborn heart. swollen with scraps. bruised ego. brittle as burnt paper. they sank like soggy receipts. limp. ink-smudged. fucking overdue.

i’ve spent years becoming fluent in a language no one else bothered to hear.

i’d be wrecked if someone stole this from me.
the right to stand alone at the ocean’s edge, where the wind slaps my face raw and the salt bites like it’s dragging up secrets i buried long ago.
no one can hand the ocean over like a trinket.
might as well try bottling a thunderstorm or pinning down raw, unbridled chaos.
the ocean isn’t a possession.
it’s a force that demands your presence. when i carve out time to be here, i remember.
i’m never really alone. solitude rides shotgun while the ocean watches me like an old friend who’s seen every scar, every story, and doesn’t flinch.

a hundred glass circles, flat and wide,
lined up like budget baptisms
cheap, holy, and hollow,
gaping, waiting, swallowing light.

the local taxi drivers gather in the car park by the old war tank and memorial in the heart of town, leaning on rusted memories of long-forgotten battles, casting sideways glances at a town that barely registers their presence.