when the water goes still

just trying to stay afloat

i was never taught how to choose a shore,
only how to float
wherever the water decided to carry me.

every wave had a name
this is what matters now,
this is what everyone’s doing,
this is how you stay afloat.
so i let the tide take my wrists
and call it guidance.

i drifted from interest to interest
like a bottle passed hand to hand,
each person shaking me gently,
checking if i still held something worth keeping.

the ocean is loud with opinions.
currents argue beneath the surface,
and i learned early
that stillness looks like drowning
from far away.

so i swam.
toward what shimmered,
toward what rose fastest to the surface,
toward whatever promised land
before the salt could sting my eyes.

i mistook momentum for meaning.
i mistook depth for danger.
i learned how to surf waves
i never wanted to ride,
smiling while the board cut into my feet.

sometimes i glimpse myself
in calmer water—
a reflection rippling, unfinished,
asking quietly
what i would chase
if no one was watching the tide.

but the undertow is persuasive.
it hums with approval,
with belonging,
with the promise that if i keep moving
no one will notice
i don’t know where i’m going.

i’ve swallowed oceans worth of shoulds,
lungs burning with borrowed desires,
my own voice diluted
until it sounds like everyone else’s.

i’m tired of being seaworthy.
tired of proving i can survive
storms i didn’t summon.

i want to sink
not to disappear,
but to feel the weight of myself again,
to touch the quiet floor
where trends can’t reach
and pressure finally dissolves.

maybe there’s a shoreline
that doesn’t cheer when i arrive,
doesn’t clap for my endurance,
just lets me wring the salt from my hair
and ask, slowly,

what do i love
when the water goes still?

i don’t need the loudest wave anymore.
i need a current that feels like mine
gentle enough to listen to,
strong enough to carry me
home.