the poet

i was told to beware of the ocean. ‘too dangerous,’ they said. ‘riptides and sharks and churning, crashing waves that will drag you under and hold you there. just stay in the shallows.’ they told me this because they were afraid of the haunting, rolling sea; of the bewitching colours and movement that can capture your attention for hours. they were scared that i would come back different, more understood, more in awe. now i forget to be afraid then they tell me to, for i have seen what has made them so scared and i’ve only seen beauty, and a part of my soul was made understood. only now i will never be able to get the song of the sea out of my veins.

i’m excited to see the ocean, for it’s not the same as hearing it in a shell. to be pummelled by its force, rocked by its lapping roll, soothed late at night by the sound of it returning to shore.  i’m excited to find myself in all the depths of the sea, in all the changing waves and midnight colours, the milky foam and sparkling beads of air pocketed on the surface. i’m excited to maybe find home.

when you’re in love with the sea you understand the beauty of inconsistency, how it can keep me on edge and engulf me in the feeling of safety all at once.

i love the ocean because of its restless contradictions. for how it can be limitless in a limited space, infinite in a finite world. i love how it plays with my mind—calm one moment and harsh the next, grounding me in its bottomless gulf.

the things that terrify you most are no more than boundaries in your own mind. and the fears that wake you before the sun are less powerful than a glow of light. and i know you cannot untangle your spiralling thoughts, and i know that sometimes you cannot even breathe, and that the stars are no comfort and the sea is no lullaby and you are down to the end of your line, but -  you are not lost. you are not adrift. the sea still carries you, and one day it will return you to shore

bees are gentle creatures. they go about their business quietly, never stopping to realize how they making the world more beautiful with fuzzy pollen dusting their legs and helping more flowers to bloom around us. their wispy gossamer wings carrying them where they need to be, and we’re the ones who enjoy what they’ve left behind— the honey-sweet smell of flowers. makes me think, how something so small and soft can be so important to our gardens without ever realizing. - you could paint them in a dusting of golden eyeshadow

my hands are dirty; stories and secrets and generations mixed in with the dust. wash them— my mother says—  there are germs. but— the stories— the secrets— all of that came from an afternoon of running my hands over their dusty, dirty spines. i want to see more than just their skeletons.