My body is filled with sand. But it’s not soft sugary sand. It’s harsh, scratching sand that is there days after our bodies are no longer at the beach. Chafing and cutting.
Sometimes my blood is cold, like the lapping waves after a storm.
And sometimes it’s warm, like the inescapable heat of a shameless summer day when even the sea provides no respite.
Sensations come in crushing waves and pulling riptides.
I float in the salty sensation of pain.
Where does it hurt?
Where doesn’t it hurt?
I am hot, water collected in shallow pools left unrefreshed by a retreating tide
And yet cold when left to face the breeze
I know my skin is burning but escaping the rays of the light is an impossible task
I will face the stinging ache later
And endure the burn now
And do it again
My fingers are fickle like the minnows in the surf
- unpredictable and slipping
My feet ache like I’ve walked on hot sand too long
My knees buckle the way the dunes shift beneath their own weight.
The sound of the shore and the ocean’s parting and embrace once sang me to sleep
Now I wish to be far from the ocean. Where it’s quiet.
Or to hear the structure of day to day life passing by. Not to miss but to partake
I love the beach, but when my body becomes the beach I long for the sacred spaces that are not infiltrated by the salt, sand, and sunburn.
