it's a metaphor. your turn.

threw myself against the waves and then was confused when I got sucked under. tumbled in the sand and felt rocks against my skin. pulled myself out and counted all the scrapes. too many, too many.
tried to hold the water but caught nothing. just detritus. little things that I can't get rid of now. little things that cling when I crawl out of the ocean.

do you
know what
I mean?

laid in the sun, unprotected, and was shocked by the ensuing redness. and where did these freckles come from? why am I in such pain? of course these things happen. of course they'll happen again.
went swimming and got hurt.
sat out and got burnt.
all that's left is the scum in secret places that I'll still be finding days later. in my ears, my head, the webbing of my toes.
and the next time I smell my blanket,
I will think of this.
sea salt, crushed shells, decaying organic matter.
life, death, and

indifference.