It won’t happen to me

It all happens when the light seems to break the water. You thought you were impenetrable. Nothing could change your shape. The briny, weightless deluge that conjured up your mystic history into life, so sweet

“It won’t happen to me,” you say in a sparkle of lagoon that churned, deepened

The tempestuous maelstrom of the sickening gods creeping in upon you, you can’t feel it yet, it’s too far away

It’s a drip-drop that feels like the warmest part of the day that is about to sink into cloudy storms

You were divine, utterly swollen with a blanket of fearless, nebulous tranquility

When the light broke you, the water seemed to burst at the seams

Everyone seems to think they would leave someone as soon as you knew you were being abused, by the first strike, the first slap, the first punch, the first cruel

Insult

“It won’t happen to me,”

The torrential storm bypassed you, so you believe

The hurricane of summer is miscalculated

What they don’t know is the abuse is a swirling chasm of a whirlpool, stuck in a timeless desert of light and sound

Invisible with the brightest, beaming glow

The light broke your water

Adam felt his shifting tides of salt sink with the pain of his water

We can feel it now too

As Eve feels her throat grow scratchy looks at Adam’s apple in his throat

Can it be so excruciating, powerful and damning like Noah’s Flood

Or dry as the windless desert with Moses at its helm

The light tossed out the brackish water into gold

The light captured our sorrows into streams that melded into fear

Our fury broke the salt that sunk into the rivers

Our own starlight found the dead waters

It has found its life

“It won’t happen to me.”