adrift

The fishes gather

The fishes dart away

The fishes swirl and return

Sunbeams sift the water

They sway and flex

Like golden fingers searching the turquoise

They shine on the blood that I have spilt

It rises like incense in the morning

It rises like a prayer

Crimson clouds are brightly lit

Royal purple against the deep, abiding blue

Of a constant sea

*

And I am cloaked in wilting garments

I cry out my supplication

But no sound may dent these endless horizons

My voice is tossed among the waves, muffled and drowned

And lost beneath the surface

*

My sacrifice

My cadaver

My self

He is sinking

And all my sharks smell the blood

***

***

***

Authors note:

I don’t have many regrets but the ones I do have feel kind of oppressive at times. They can lead to a depth of rumination that can be quite isolating.

And tough to shake.

But I do realize: this magnitude of regret is a silly thing to entertain. It’s like my heart gets stuck in a loop and my brain is like “bro, snap the fuck out of it. It’s done. Move on. Let’s go already!”

So this poem is kind of just my attempt at visualizing the way that regret sometimes casts me adrift— the melodramatic language (blood, cadaver, sacrifice) is deliberate exaggeration as a means of gentle self deprecation. That’s my head kinda making fun of my heart for grieving things that never were… for catastrophizing over shit that’s long done and no longer relevant.

In reality most of this stuff shouldn’t have been a big deal to begin with.

But knowing that doesn’t always mean it’s easy to shake loose.