Never noticed how numb I’d gotten until I started to feel again.
I’d put on layers upon layers upon layers of caution, compliance and cynicism, thick and drab and shapeless, not quite like clothing nor exactly part of me.
It took two months in a port city, two months alone in this place before cracks started to appear in this armour, thick and drab and cold and constricting;
it took but a few days from that point until it all crumbled into dust.
My skin feels all new and raw underneath.
It burns and chafes and stings under the sun and in the sand and the saltwater
as I wade into the sea, life-giving once more, to swim beyond the breaking waves and the boats and the fortress that still protects me,
floating, unknowing what sort of water stings my eyes.
My soul is laid bare before the ocean and filled with songs again,
laments though most of them be.
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