the beach is bleak but you are standing there. the wind has itâs hands in your hair. your feet are on the damp ground. you expected quicksand. you expected atreyu on the shore saying your name above the surf. your dress a white & silent surrender, and everything around you doing its best december impression. the autopsy report saying she had a knife inside her. not a wound, the whole damned thing. you wanted lemonade, you wanted a tldr, a craigslist missed connection, the postcard from somewhere it never rains signed âyouâll be on your feet in no time.â or âget well soon.â you didnât notice how quiet it was out here until the pianos started playing. soft & sure, like somewhere the credits are rolling, and the cast is bowing and everyone in the audience is dead. amen. suddenly the water starts to draw back. i know, you canât believe your eyes as the waters recede, i couldnât believe mine either the day i watched you disappear in the rearview mirror. iâm sorry it has to be this way. youâve seen enough disaster movies to know how it ends. after all, you wanted an ending, right? isnât it ironic that the only things that come back come to kill you? itâs safe to say the lifeboats left a long time ago. itâs the thought that counts right? youâre out here sweating and exhausted because someone said there would be fireworks. youâre upset because theyâve been postponed until further notice. you and the clouds have something in common. the only difference is they can give up without someone noticing. every time you have this dream you always think youâll wake up covered in blood. you washed up in a hospital waiting room drenched to the bone, waiting for a sign that says you imagined all this, but orderly has some questions. whereâd you get those velvet knuckles, those stormy knees? who pulled you from the wreckage singin âwhat if god was one of us?â youâre reassured that the tumor is benign, and that you should name it. i canât give you anything to dull the pain, but i can give you something to wash it down, i could dig the gravel out of your elbow and read you bedtime stories, where the hero wins the way they should, where we slay the monsters above and below your bed, but i canât. maybe i wonât. whatâs the difference if the lump is in your throat or mine, itâs still there, itâs right there. okay so, iâve got my own questions. how come only things that are perfect get lost at sea? why do you keep asking me to help you hide the body? after all it is my body. after all itâs all missed calls, broken glass menagerie, this whole thing has been a catastrophe. you & me, olley olley oxen free. and although you said it was safe to come out no one did. fine. have it your way. call it off call everything off. board up every house from here to cincinnati. the prayer goes âif california sinks into the pacific i hope it takes arizona with it.â the rant where you talk to something inanimate. a lamp for instance, no one in particular, at least youâre getting the point across. at least youâve got a point. at least thereâs that. talking to the god of broken promises, god of rain, god of i told you so, god of craigslist god of tinder. the oldest trick in the book is saying you cared. truth or dare. whyâs it always feel like fighting? like thrashing just beneath the surface, like someone punched a hole right through. run your hands around the edges until they feel familiar, until you can call the bruise by name. thereâs something about the way you gave the benefit of the doubt. thereâs something in the water here. a boat named âforeverâ bound to sink. the answering machine in heaven saying âwe will not be taking requests at this time.â
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