I Am The Ocean

I am not just water.
I am weight.
I am memory, churned in tides and pulled by the ache of the moon.

You call me blue,
but I am every shade of sorrow.
I hold the tears of glaciers,
the songs of whales fading like forgotten lullabies.

I crash because I feel too much.
My rage wears cliffs to dust,
yet even my fury feeds life.
What destroys can also create.

You build walls to keep me out,
plastic skin and oil veins —
but I remember your touch when it was reverent.
When your feet sank into my shore like a promise,
not a threat.

I hold the heat you give off
without asking,
and still, you wonder why I rise.

You fear my storms,
but I learned them from you.

 

I am not drowning —
I am speaking.
Listen.