The Mermaid in the Map

They said she danced

in a waltz of starlight and salt—

her tail flicked like ribbonfire,

scales whispering secrets

to the barnacled hush of the sea.

I pressed my ear to the map,

old paper, crumbling,

smelling like forgotten thunder.

She never spoke back.

But I thought maybe—

maybe if I loved her enough,

she would.

There was an ocean in that drawer,

not the real kind,

but the sort that pulses behind your ribs

when no one looks.

I opened it once

and found pearls crying silently

beside the skeletal fingers of coral.

They looked like toys

until I touched them.

The chest wouldn’t open for me.

It had a lock shaped like a heart,

but the key must’ve drowned

in someone else’s tears.

I asked it nicely.

I begged with my best bedtime voice.

She watches me sometimes—

the mermaid.

Flat on the paper,

but eyes tilted just enough

to look away.

I think she remembers too much

and that’s why she won’t speak.

I told her my secrets:

the broken tooth I never showed Mum,

how I lied about the cookies,

how I sometimes

pretend I’m made of mist.

The sea doesn't forgive,

and neither does she.

Still—

I wish I could hold her hand,

just once.

Not because she’s magic,

but because she looks like

she knows what it feels like

to be the only one left

when the tide forgets your name.

I tried to give her a star,

drew it in pencil

on the corner of the page.

It smudged.

It always smudges.

I think that’s what despair is—

when even the things you imagine

won’t stay.

She waltzes without me,

forever pressed

in the sea-colored hush

of someone else's dreams.