Fish Out of Water

I stare at the sand in the grooves of my sandals under fluorescent lights.

Like a shell without the ocean’s saltwater sheen.

Fish out of water.

It’s different in here.

Cold. Sterile. Appropriate.

I scream internally where no one can hear.

For color. For the outside.

For all the “inappropriate.”

Expected words tumble out of my mouth,

yet my mind remains fixated on river water and sand granules.

I’m here, yet not.

My spirit’s out there, prancing its wildness around in everything.

Proud of the matter that made it, freed from societal caging.




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