Beneath the Surface

There used to be days where the sea met my toes and my hair would tangle and salt would stick to my skin. I would lie down along the midnight shores and listen to echoes of madness. The darkness would swallow me up, its soft, feathery insides. I remember tears, my throat closing in, silent, static. Cold air would seep into my bones. Wet, distant, lonely. A permanent malignity sifting through the chaos of my mind.