Interpretation is something that I have always wished to entrust upon the eyes that read me. I don’t like to give written meanings to words I have felt. That’s the beauty of it: When one reads between the lines and they take and feel them for something of their own, it is so much deeper.
I am an ocean
awash with saline tears.
At night,
the soaring tidal waves of my brumal blues
embrace hands with the old moon
and bring me to my knees in a wound.
Look what you have done now, dear.
Cause me a lilting tread of ail
and left me to twinge silently
in all my arresting qualms.
I know you mean well,
but my heart’s not that strong;
it can carry my burden
but not your biting words all night long.
I am tired of rising
then collapsing against the shore,
only to do it all over again,
in a desperate repeating sore.
It is never easy
for me to open up;
I fear I might empty myself
if I bleed too many tears.
So, save me
from this self-destructing abomination,
it is not so possible,
but I fear if I drown no one,
I might drown in my own annihilation.
