Puppet to the Tides
There's an ocean inside my chest,
an ocean of emptiness,
and I feel its tides
pulling me toward and away from the moon
like I am a puppet to its guide.
It's drowning me:
my lungs are filled with salt brine,
my liver drowning in excess.
My heart is a shrine
to all the people I used to be:
to the three year old child who looked up to the sky,
to the twelve year old child who started to die,
to the me I was when I could still cry.
I am overpowered by the waves;
I am letting them take me to my grave.
I'm drowning in wine, drowning in time,
drowning in the memories
of everything that used to be mine.
My head's above the water,
but my lungs are filled,
and I cannot keep my nose above it anymore.