The Little Mermaid

By Sylvester Wong

She was young, her tail still slight,

voice like waves that kissed the light.

He found her near the coral bed,

and whispered songs that turned her head.

"Up above, the air is bright,

with painted skies and starry nights.

The world beyond is laced with grace,

not like this cold, forgotten place."

He fed her dreams of silk and light,

of dances held in halls of white.

He brushed her scales, he kissed her cheek,

and taught her how to crave and seek.

She swam to the hag with trembling heart.

“I want his world. Just let me start.”

The witch just sighed, “Then hear me well,

The sweetest love still reeks of hell.

You’ll walk on glass, you’ll trade your tongue,

and lose your way where sea songs sprung.

Once cast ashore, no tide will take,

a choice once made, you won’t unmake.”

She signed her song, her name, her soul,

believing love would make her whole.

He met her there on trembling sand,

and whispered, “Trust me. Take my hand.”

He took her where no tide goes,

dressed her in lace, kissed her toes.

“Stay here,” he said, “I’ll come again,”

then locked the door and sold her name.

She was to dance behind a gilded gate,

with poisoned wine and heavy plate.

A treasure caged for men to feast,

her name erased, her song deceased.

When she cried, he came once more,

all charm and smile beyond the door.

“Be patient, love. It’s almost through.

I swear, I’m doing this for you.

I’ll buy a ship. I’ll bring you home.

Just one more night, then never alone.

You’ll see, my pearl, you’ll see it’s true,

the pain will pass, I’ll come for you.”

She waited days.

She waited weeks.

She prayed with hope.

She felt so weak.

At last, she wrote, “I miss the sea.

The air is harsh; it burns to breathe.

I want to go home. I want the tide.

I want to see the world I left behind.”

He smiled at first, a gentle sound,

“My love, don’t cry, you’re safe and found.

You’ll see the sea when all is through.

I’m building something just for you.”

But when she wept, his smile decayed.

His voice grew sharp, his color frayed.

"You’d throw it all away for foam?

After all I’ve done to make this home?"

He struck the wall. She flinched in place.

He gripped her jaw, wiped tears from her face.

“You forced my anger. You forced my hands.

You know I love you. Don’t be cruel.”

She trembled in silence, throat gone dry.

She crushed the page to apologize.

No scream to speak, no voice to cry.

He leaned in close, his whisper cold:

“You made me shout. You know that’s true.

I only hurt because of you.

Be good, my pearl. Just see this through.

I’ll make it right for me and you.”

And she believed, as captives do,

that love was real, that lies were true.

Still, she missed the ocean’s blue

and wondered if home missed her too.

She waited months.

She waited years.

She prayed through pain.

She drowned in tears.

She watched the moon slip from its place,

forgot the softness of the waves.

She dreamt of tides, and mother’s face,

as strangers touched what once was grace.

And through her window where no wind blew,

she saw him pass with someone new,

a girl who lived above the waves,

who smiled the smile once on her face.

No scream escaped. No curse was said.

Her heart sank low. Her hope was dead.

She fled that night, to cliffs and foam,

her aching feet carried her home.

By the sea, she tried to call,

but her voice was gone, too seared, too small.

No sisters came, no song, no signs,

the sea just watched, with distant eyes.

She took one step, then two, then three,

and gave herself back to the sea.

But the sea refused what once was known,

her body sank, a girl disowned.

Her sisters found her days from then,

her hair adrift, her pulse long spent.

They wept a hymn the deep still stores,

then rose to haunt the ones who sail the shores.

Now men who whisper love and lies

are drawn to seas by lullabies.

Her sisters sing for her, soft and slow,

their songs are grief the drowned will know.

They never lie. But gods, they sing,

her voice the tide, her grief the ring.

And when the sea begins to grieve,

it's her you hear before you leave.

No rescue rope. No wedding plea.

No storybook eternity.

No happy end. No reverie.

Just a requiem under the sea.

By Sylvester Wong