The Ocean Inside My Ribs

There is an ocean inside my ribs.

Not calm, not turquoise postcard water,

but a restless tide—

waves breaking against bone,

currents dragging at the lungs,

salt foaming where air should be.

I. The Tide

Each breath feels borrowed.

On good days, the tide is low.

I walk the shoreline of myself,

feet pressed to wet sand,

able to speak without choking.

On harder days,

the water climbs the walls of my chest.

Every inhale is thick,

every exhale is ragged.

I try to call for help,

but the words sink before they reach the surface.

This is what anxiety feels like—

not thought, but tide.

Not mind, but flood.

II. The Storm

Some nights, the storm swells.

Lightning cracks across my ribs,

thunder rolls inside my throat.

Waves crash against my sternum

so violently I cannot tell

whether the world outside is shaking,

or only me.

Panic is the rip current.

It seizes the ankles,

drags me under before I remember

how to swim.

My pulse becomes a frantic lighthouse,

flaring, flaring,

signaling to no one.

And still—

I keep thrashing,

until exhaustion makes me surrender

to the dark water’s grip.

III. The Creatures Below

Beneath the tide,

creatures move.

Jellyfish of old fears,

transparent but stinging.

Shadows of sharks,

made of memory and teeth.

Schools of doubt,

darting, flashing silver.

They live in the deep of me,

uninvited but constant.

When I dive too far inward,

I brush against them,

and their touch burns long after.

IV. The Drowning

Sometimes it is not violent.

Sometimes the ocean kills softly.

No crashing waves.

Just weight.

A steady filling of the lungs with water,

a pressure against the heart,

a silence thicker than breath.

This is the drowning few see:

the quiet suffocation

behind a smile,

the flood that leaves no outward trace.

V. The Floating

But I have learned,

in all these years of tides,

that fighting is futile.

The more I thrash,

the faster I sink.

The more I rage,

the more salt enters my lungs.

So I practice floating.

I spread my arms wide,

lie back against the waves of myself.

I let the current hold me,

trusting that even water knows

how to cradle,

how to keep me buoyant.

I whisper to the storm:

“I will not fight you.

I will not drown.

Carry me if you must,

but do not destroy me.”

And sometimes—

sometimes—

the sea listens.

VI. The Rhythm

The ocean inside me is not only storm.

It is depth.

It is life.

It is the same salt that cradles every living thing,

the same pull that moves the moon,

the same tide that teaches return.

I survive not by emptying it,

but by learning its rhythm.

By breathing with the tide,

not against it.

By recognizing the swells as part of me,

not punishment,

not curse.

VII. The Prayer

So when the water presses hard against my ribs,

when every breath feels like drowning,

I place my hand on my chest and whisper:

I know you.

I will not flee.

I will not drown.

I will learn to breathe where water lives.

And the ocean answers,

not with silence,

but with a rhythm—

a heartbeat beneath the waves,

steady, enduring,

reminding me:

even in flood,

there is survival.

Even in storm,

there is song.