High tide

I let the sea foam claim me when I am hollow. I let the sea foam claim me when my bones feel empty and alone, when they are husks and all I feel inside are caves and grottos echoing with the waves' crash. I don't need seashells to my ear to hear the sound of the surf. It finds me. It finds me in moments I am trying to be very very still and reminds me that it need not move me or take me, that the knives I walk on day to day are part of the bargain, part of who I was born to be, and that in that even when the tide goes out, I am part of the spray, part of the salt, like the shark, the seaweed, the siren, and the sailor, I could not be anywhere, were I not here. Because even if I leave, this is what I always see. The tide always finds me. I let the sea foam claim me because it hurts not to, because the sting of the wind is nothing compared to when I try to leave the water behind and the sand burns and everything I am starts to disappear, drowning on dry land and nobody can tell its only bubbles that come out when I try to speak. I let the sea foam claim me in my quiet moments because it is my home. I let the sea foam claim me because it cannot do otherwise. I let the sea foam claim me because it means the tide is coming in. And high tide, caught in the swell, and the movement, and the potential, is the only place I feel at peace.