Stress

I'm swallowing an ocean,
drinking it all down,
lapping up sweet foam
from the crests of waves
while bubbles freckle my skin
and make droopy beards hanging off my chin.

I lap up all the foam.
My cheeks tingle
as the bubbles pop
and melt from my cheeks.
The water brushing against my face
crusts my lips with salt.

The water pulls away from me
before surging forward,
slapping my face
and slipping into my mouth
forcing itself between my teeth
and down my throat.

The water carries seashells.
The shells cut the soft skin
of the inside of my cheeks
and the sensitive lining of
my throat.
Salt packs into the bleeding lesions.

The water carries seaweed.
The strands are like gristle
cliched tightly between
round white tombstones
of teeth.
When I bite down, they bleed green.

The water carries fish.
They have slick, gray skin
or colorful, rough scales
or tail fins that move
like hair.
They split open as waves throw them against the sand.

The fish bleed out more water
for me to drink.

I am drowning as around me
the water swells,
packing in around my feet
and expanding up to my shoulders,
until my head goes under.

The sea forces down into me
and I'm so full
that as much goes down
is forced back up

I can't breath.
I can't see.
I can't speak.

The ocean is swallowing me,
drinking me all down.