Ocean Blues

By Devin Aceton

He hadn't said anything out of the ordinary. He had been polite even, so why is it that my heart wrenches itself so much that I have to lock myself away? Why is it that I wish to drown in the ocean of my grief that seems to gain depth every passing second?

I have difficulty comprehending my sorrow. I do not understand how easily tears fill my eyes. He was supposed to be my protector, a friend in need, my brother. I had been gifted with many brothers— a huge family, that was the biggest contributor to my despair. I don't remember my childhood, but remnants of hope remain scattered within me. The incessant hope of being loved.

I was abandoned, I believe. Not once, but many a time.

All dreams of an amicable, loving relationship with him, them, had shattered, but he was here, wasn't he? He was kind and reasonable. Polite and certain. They all were. So why did his words affect me so dearly? I would see them huddled close, laughing together, and I couldn't help but think how lovable; how family could be when I wasn't there. And oh, how lonely I feel. How I wish not to be and how I am. 

I am drowning. I’m drowning, and I cannot swim. I don't even try; I don't think I want to. I dream of them— family, and I dream of being loved unchained. I am not unloved. I think I'm loved dearly and passionately. But it is so lonely to be loved and not feel its embrace. 

To know of warmth and to feel it are of crucial distinction.  

I am adored and cared for when I can't see— out of earshot. When I do, however, how tolerated I feel. It is as though loving me is vile and appalling. As if showing me affection brings shame to them, as if I'm not worth being loved. 

Am I loathsome to such an extent that I do not deserve their care? Is showing me affection that sordid? Am I that despicable? 

I pathetically wish to feel their love, warm and bright, engulf myself in it, not simply discern it as a fact. I don’t want to be loved from behind the curtains, within the shadows.

I hope my grief is proof enough that I loved them. So much that it filled the brim of my heart to such an extent it overflowed and inundated my whole being with it. 

I’ve loved many things that have catalyzed the despair I carry with me to this day. The ashes of what could've been saturate my lungs. I cannot breathe. 

Brothers— family; they feel worse than strangers on a sidewalk. They don't make me feel as if I'm hated. In fact, they don’t make me feel like I'm anything to them at all. 

It's a distasteful thought, yet it burns my eyes and blurs my vision. 

Sometimes I would stand on the edge of the terrace and imagine their expression if I just let myself topple over. Would they scream until their lungs give out for the impenitent son who dreamed of it but could never touch the sky? Would they clutch their heart in despair knowing their brother was in pain, and they turned a blind eye to it? Would they shed tears for me knowing they could've changed the trajectory of it? Will they be able to bear the guilt of the isolation and loneliness they made me go through? Would they clasp this lifeless body of mine, crying for me to return? If miraculously I did, would they love me right then? Beg for forgiveness? Would then they care for me brazenly? Finally? I do not know. 

I’m not that lucky, perhaps. Maybe I was written in existence to be doomed. To care but never be cared for, to love and live unloved.

The ocean seemed so bright, so blue, it could be mistaken for the limitless sky. It looked serene and peaceful. So much that I didn’t want to tribulate its serenity, but I was tired of being selfless. 

The blues surround my being; it is pleasant. Suffocating but gentle. I'm drowning. It’s the warmest I've felt since birth. 

I've never belonged to anything or anyone. I'm in a house with strangers. Yet they make me feel so much. So much, but never love. It seems like a sad statement— I do not know. I'm unaware. I don't allow myself to feel. Anything. When I'm with them. 

The child they murdered haunts that house, and the ghost of it wails within its caged walls. I am but a mere vessel to give him a name. A worthless identity. 

House, not home. How bitter. 

I let rivers of emotion flow when I'm alone. Gusts of wind hold me when I cry.

 I cry; it's strange how much sorrow humans can carry in their hearts. How their souls mourn the loss of apprehension. It's stranger how loving so expressively can be so heavy when it's not appreciated. When it's not reciprocated by the ones who are supposed to love you unconditionally. I feel wronged; it isn't my prerogative, but I am just human. 

I'm just a being with unbridled emotions surrounded by those who aren't. 

I am drowning. I won’t be saved— the fact warms through my veins. I don't think I want to be. I would like to be free from the cruelty of loving. Of feeling. Everything. In its entirety. Anything at all.

I'm drowning, surrounded by blues, and I think how sad. To know the intricate familiarity of the feeling. 

I was abandoned; forsaken by the ones I loved. It drew blood from my soul. They abandoned me; they stood unfazed.

I am drowning, and no one is here. Warm rays of sun pierce through the surface and caress me tenderly, with fondness. How gentle. How loving. How unfamiliar. 

I will soon sleep eternally on the floor bed of the ocean, knowing I was embosomed with warmth of the home I never had. 

I will drown in the warm blue of the ocean that has loved me more than anyone ever could. I will gladly drown knowing I could rest in the affectionate embrace of the ocean that will treat my heart with delicacy unknown prior to my existence.  

I am drowning. I'm loved. I'm free.

By Devin Aceton