Amanda Westbrook. 20. West Palm Beach, FL. All I want is the sea.

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With salty, furrowed brows we let the ocean smooth us into broken stones.
Washed out lives, we become something bigger by becoming something smaller.
The lights turn green in our room and we tangle together like two pieces of seaweed who happened to find each other in the big blue.
Hosts to many throughout our wandering days, I hope out of all the crests, we stay at the bottom of this ocean together.

I am finding it increasingly difficult to think with all this sea water in my head. The waves are persistent and while being knocked down more than enough times, I stay. It’s endurance is unwavering.

I trust the flames the saltwater ignites in my nose and the soreness in my throat, begging to be quenched. I am surrounded by water that I cannot subsist off of. It is oddly fulfilling, however. I am a seperate entity of this blue mass, but the way my toes tangle in the sand and the waves greet me, I really am not sure any longer.

Nothing outside of this water makes sense. I don’t understand much about my fishy friends, either, but I know them more than my family.

When I gather my flesh to part ways, the open-mouthed ocean settles, no more battering waves to send me off. I step foot on the sandy shore and weep all the way down that boardwalk back to my rusted home.

I know it’s naïve of me to think that we will breathe forever, but it’s becoming increasingly difficult to care when I have all these hearts and stars blocking my vision.

I perpetually envision occupying the same living space as you. Nothing would be white, we are way too messy of people for that, it would only stress us out. I have spilled one too many glasses of red wine to be considered “clean” and we both know that.

A bathtub that we never would want to come out of, so we soak our days away together, pruning in endless bubble baths with ocean scented candles illuminating counter spaces.

Our kitchen cabinets would be stocked with Lucky Charms, coffee grounds, and whiskey. Writer’s fuel. My menthols would never be far away, always ending up on a table nearby.

We would need a King sized bed to suit all of our play fights. When you’re away at work, I will take cat naps on your side of the bed. Your scent will linger with me all day to get me by. At night, our bed will become the safe haven for all of our secrets from the day. Secrets that our pillows will hold close and our hearts will hold closer.

Let’s face the facts, I am going to need an in-ground pool equipped with a hot tub on the side. We have fish blood, we need to be able to swim. Not to mention the midnight skinny dipping swims. Those will be fun. The hot tub will warm my frigid figure. Those are a definite necessity to my dream house.

Art, the ocean, will drown our walls with blue. You know it makes me uneasy to be away from the sea. I guess that it is not terribly relevant because when you hold me, all fear dissipates. You are my ocean.

I just want to sleep naked with you in a hotel room somewhere in Hawaii, where we can sleep to the sounds of crashing waves and geckos gobbling up the insects on the glass window panes. Hawaii’s morning sun would wake us and we would go sailing, or go lie in a hammock on a private beach somewhere, drinking fruity drinks out of big coconuts.

Five things people probably don’t know about me:

  1. If I was born a boy, my mom was going to name me either Austin or Aidan. My mom had Amanda and Ariel narrowed down for girl names, my sister pressing for Ariel. My mom finally decided my name would be Amanda, and it made my sister so upset, that my mom let her appoint me a middle name. Her middle name is Christine, so she declared my middle name Christi. (Sidenote: My sister is now twenty-five and six months pregnant with her first child. His name is going to Christian).
  2. Ever since I was six, my grandparents and parents let me have a glass of red wine with dinner every night.
  3. There are honestly several things that I am self-conscious about, but I think the thing I am the most picky about is my eyebrows and teeth. I am constantly hyper-aware of how my eyebrows look and if my teeth are white enough to fit my standards.
  4. I am terribly afraid to be away from the ocean for too long. I get mopey and awfully uneasy. I can’t rationally explain the feeling that wells up inside of me. It’s an odd occurrence, but I just know that if I ever am without it, I feel lost.
  5. I guess I’ll pair this one together with the one above it, just because it’s quite coincidental. I have a few recurring nightmares that have spanned for as long back as I can remember, but one that has been most prevalent and woke me from the deepest of sleeps is one about tsunamis. Or rather, tsunami type waves. It’s usually a different beach each dream, always a different situation, different people I’m with, different everything, but it usually ends in a huge tidal wave, or a succession of these monstrous waves. I have never experienced a tsunami in real life, so it’s odd that I’m feeling this fear equated with the occurrence. 

Trinkets hit the waves,

splashing until they are sunken treasures,

nestled into their new blustery blankets of sand.

A shark finds a nice leg to nibble,

the crabs feast on the left hand, fighting over fingers,

and Mr. Eel even peeks out to gobble a shiny necklace up whole.

It’s survival of the fittest and the ocean is no place for the weak.

Foaming blue bubbles and churns, never showing signs of a state of rest.

Frothing wave breaks unlock the boat’s secrets, the sea’s crests.

Fumbling for air, the waves are cruel, unrelenting.

Fighting the land, I seldom wish to be apart from my true love, the briny deep.

The sea snatched the unsuspecting child. It swept him out of his anxious stance and carried him until he lost sight of the shore. He put up a meek fight, a child’s fight. He kicked. He punched and splashed. The waves slammed into him, repeatedly. Knocked his soul out of him. Sucked his spirit out. He was not the same child when the sea returned him to the shore. Placed him gently back on his feet, even splashed his hair, equivalent to a pat on the head. The boy grew up and was never the same. He grew up with calloused skin. Salted. He was different. Winded.

The water roared over the deck, tugging at all that wasn’t tied down. “You’re mine,” the sailor heard it whisper as it swiped him off his feet and into it’s clutches. The sailor’s deafening scream was muted by the water’s victory cry. The boat swirled into more turmoil each second it remained. “Break, break. I will break you.” It hissed as another wave smothered it. Within an hour the boat was obliterated, bits of it’s planks and packages were strewn about in the clammy hands of the water, waiting to be overcome as well. The water would take care of it, but for now, it was tired. It calmed.