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1 minute read
Thrice SalT
Friederike Wiessner
the storm last night gave gifts to the meadow: seaweed feeding flattened grass shells and plastic left unclaimed in the grey light
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these days, i go to the black shore and cry aware i’m the only spark of fire in a landscape of cold calling me home. the storm keeps pushing the infinite to my shore:
‘kiss me feed me your light.’
if i were to give my blood to the sea, what would happen to us? all i want is a soft surrender, the eternal to pierce me, surround me—
i take off my shoes. i’ve come to know i am a woman, wayward and wild, and alone.