Dear John

Dear John,

I hope this letter finds you well

in the safe confines of your home.

I'm leaving you for the sea

that keeps whispering to me

'It won’t hurt, it won’t hurt for long.'

I had sworn I'd learn to swim one day,

grow gills and find Atlantis.

But you stitched stones into my fleece,

blew wind into my screams

and told me

I was too good for those dreams.

Little by little, I learned to drown

I learned to howl into my pillow.

But in the sea, I can cry a river.

It won’t hurt, it won’t hurt to go.

I now have tides at my throat

so I wonder

if the shore is too far away.

I could go that way, or I could just spiral down

Like a chewed piece of bone

spat into a drain.

As I lie with the fishes, the fear settles.

Underneath my dress,

the stories whisper.

I run a finger through my scars

and I write on my skin:

It won’t hurt, it won’t hurt when it’s over.

I’m now the ebb and the flow

I’m the undertow that’s wild and fierce

My soul is water, my bones — the salt

I won't decay, I won't disappear.