I read in a story about the ocean, that, "Nothing moves a Women as much as the possibility of saving a Man."
The truth of this repulses me,
And I can't exactly pin down why, but I know it has something to do with Him.
I thought he was an Ocean.
Deep, mysterious and full of wonders I had yet, to discover.
I swam in his waters when they were warm,
when they were cold,
and when they were infested with many toothed hunters.
Incessantly swimming, I became a sort of flotsam.
And because he was an Ocean it made sense that at times the water was choppy
that the sky would churn the sea and all would be brine and unrest.
So I learned how to swim the storm, and swim well.
But when you love an ocean, it is easy to drown in the water.
Then you told me that
You're not waving you're drowning
Not the sea but a soggy survivor.
So how could I help myself I was a life vest.
How was I to know you could swim just fine?
You knew just how to swim in my waters
Rip Tide, pulling me in with that pathetic doggy paddle
you perfected through practice.
An angler fish that fed on my compassion
He, was drowning.
He. Was. Baiting. Me.
He was an Ocean.
Was an Oil Spill.
I, I am an Ocean.
I am the Sea, see there is a world inside of me.
And while the oil puddle in the parking lot look pretty in the sun,
It sure as hell isn't a place to swim.