On Writing

Written by Coco Song from Maryland, USA

It’s the fins on my naked body while I writhe. 

It’s the air in my lungs and the sky in my eyes.

It’s the sero-mela-tonin in my brain, 

and in my heart, the eternal infestation. 

Words pump against the flesh that binds me,

so I bleed 

into the grey ocean that consumes me, 

into plastic-litter sand, and wrinkling reefs. 

In these waters of hazy grayness, 

nothing remains for long – carry on, carry on –

only the abysmal depths that haunt me 

and the dazzling lights that taunt me. 

Perpetual shame and glory nibbles beneath

my skin, and I bleed,

from heart-bursting sickness and disease, 

from piercing harpoons and predator-teeth. 

My blood whispers to me, let me free, let me free.

Now I bleed; 

in its reflection live dying stars and rain-washed innocence.

Somehow, I find comfort in such vulnerability. 

But when Sun melts over the horizon, 

and Waves sway in a lulling motion, 

my seething blood flows not into the all-devouring ocean,

but instead it dyes a grey-white page with size 11 ariel. 

My need for writing is simple, really: 

it is the red and contorting creature within me

pleading to be let free. 

So I rip open its flesh-cage, 

and let it tumble from my guts and 

burrow into my pages. 

Because here in the water, we are real, 

And here between the words, we find 

freedom.