In which I despise you, but sometimes I don’t.

You are the ocean.

—in all the ways one shouldn’t be:
Cold and scorching,
Demanding and destructive.
Unwanted.
Chasing the air out of their very lungs,
Them out of their very homes.
A suffocating wall of scales and teeth
shrouded in blue and grey.

But still they look at you and see gentle waves.
Glittering sand and ice cream cones.

 

Yours Truly,

sign-off

 

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