POETRY
RHYTHM OF THE RIPTIDE
Anonymous
The waves beat back against my shores, relentless and unforgiving. Please, not again. A monotonous metronome of self-destruction. Eat. Starve. Eat. Starve. The beat never ceases, a rhythm only rivaled by that of my subconscious: Give. Up. Give. Up. Feel it? Hear it? It echoes through the chambers of my heart, congealing with every breath, every beat. Pumping in and out, a foe in my core, corrupting my innocence. The waves never dry, forever heavy and dripping with my guilt. Oh, how I wish I could part the sea and cease the waves perpetually pouring down my shoulders, forcing me to my knees. My knees that are too weak to stand, too weak to say no. The relentless tide leaves me limp and hollow, with nothing left to give and no will to fight. The winds are changing. Happily, sadly, no matter. It’s begun. It started with a seed. A glimpse of the truth. Correction—it truly began with an action, but we dare not utter those words out loud, let alone write them. Like I said, it’s begun. It hasn’t been fixed. A whisper followed suit, forcing my acceptance. A whisper turned into a conversation. A conversation turned into help. A journey with each step and stride pushing me forward and pulling me back, becoming saturated with tears until my feet are too drenched, too heavy, too unwilling to move another step. The tears dry, leaving only the salt. Salted silhouettes of evidence, a graveyard of torment, piling higher and higher with each lie that I tell myself. Unprotected by the cliffs, it only takes one blow from the waves, one gust of resentment and hatred for it all to come crumbling down, expelling the stale air from my lungs. The salt, as dispersed and scattered as my willpower, is left to only be swept up by the cascades, absorbing, demolishing, and refueling the waves. The waves that beat back, a cycle never to be escaped. Help me escape. Do you dare? The sea is treacherous. It’s grim and gray and no place for Little Miss Sunshine. Yet here I stand, balanced precariously on a glass bottle, futilely chasing an elusive fantasy. It always comes back to the dandelions. The dandelions and the necklace clasp and the shooting stars and the clock that shows 11:11. It always comes back to the precious wishes, made in vain, a strained wail into the chasm, hoping for an echo back. Hoping the request isn’t engulfed in the darkness. Hoping the flame of pain extinguishes, and with it my despair and desperation. I listen. I hear it. Do you? I hear my voice bounce back, back, back, but it’s not what I want to hear. It never is. 12 TUFTS OBSERVER OCTOBER 25, 2021
