shell

Coming out of your shell sideways like a drunk hermit crab on parade. I’m letting go of balloons and celebrating this weight off your shoulders, which are of course connected to my shoulders somehow; So that the weight floats up and right off us both. Skimming the fat of the cream off the top of the milk, the way Grandma used to tell me. When 50-60 years ago American life was so different and strange because what is a milkman anyway? How bizarre that so much significance was placed into the daily dairy economy. Metallic baskets to put out empty bottles that came and went just as often as mail delivery. I think people yearn for a time past because the grass is always greener when you fool yourself that your hindsight’s 20/20, but it never is. It and we are all flawed, all mistakes, sometimes intentioned. The fact that we’re still here is nothing short of amazing. And as I drag myself to the shore, away from the yawning stretch of open, terrifying water, taking my claws and crunching my abs. Just pulling myself with all my might so that I may find safety, I think about harrowing near-escapes and what-ifs. I ultimately land in some place of Zen, disbelief, relief. My wet face is covered in sand. It has already begun to dry. The sun warms my skin so that it gets too hot to the touch. I need to stamp out my inaction and get up. Adidas sneakers, clean and laced up by the beach towel.

Author: Roe

30. she/her. Songwriter & Trek Punk Soul™.

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