Footsteps on Water

By Aria Raina

gaping eyes, watchful yet adrift,

chipping the last of my nails, plucking lips till they’re marred.

for every blink i wish it would put me to sleep —

i blink once, then again, and again.

i fool myself, braiding illusions of time,

but it’s only a path forward from the whispers and bellows.

conversations and the judgments my mind casts upon them

flicker in my skull,

making a home, then moving on.

never had i felt the blood press against vessel walls,

my heart quickening with the minute,

then slackening, ebbing slower and slower,

as exhaustion takes a stronger hold.

gnawing at my spent remains,

famished for the taste of ease.

oh well — every piece of me a test.

perhaps i’ll find shelter, an outsider in my own town,

as i unearth every shard of this universe

unclaimed by anyone.

i clench my teeth in the quiet of the dark —

what fragment of me denies its own solace,

touching wounds for the sting?

perhaps the light would bestow me rest.

it stumbles instead and i vow to never meet its gaze again;

for i am a creature of vulnerability

long deprived and preyed upon.

so i untwine from the wires of my mind,

pronounce this self free — for i’d never felt so alive,

which was ironic, given my curse of exile.

patience tapers, and some days i loathe this vessel i inhabit;

the more i try to fade, the more i’m reminded i exist—

the fan spins, a low roar until my ears ring,

or measured breaths,

like footsteps on water, yet still tracing their path through me.

so i wish for a lull in my restless machinery,

perpetually quavering, never fully at ease;

perhaps i’m stitched differently.

there is a phantom crawling along my skin —

shadowing each step i dare to take.

By Aria Raina