He felt darker than I first thought, as his hands gripped around my waist.

Feeling more solid, real, human but looking at me like I was lunch.

He looked at everyone that way.

A buffet of bodies to be consumed, the words that dripped from his mouth spoke of freedom and power, goddesses and kneeling in front of women.

But his soul said different, his eyes like projectors, playing movies of lust that he didn’t realise I could see.

Using empowerment as deniability, as a way to be the ocean but say he was just going for a swim.

He’d happily let me drown within him and claim that I wanted to feel the air leave my lungs, wanted to know what it was like to be filled with liquid and to take my last breath.

As I surfaced he’d pull me back in, huge tidal waves, foaming at the mouth.

All of a sudden he’d admit he was the sea and would become joyful at my tears adding to his salt, to his body.

Finally calm, finally peace and I felt empty, scared, numb, wondering if all along I had wanted to feel the pull of the tide.

Wondering if I’d filled him up with my tears because I loved the waves.

The shore felt eerie as I looked out across the horizon. Watching others playing in calm waters.

Maybe I had caused the storm? Why is it so calm for her. How come she can swim. I can’t keep my eyes off the ripples.

I turn, facing my house.

Willing my body back home, no terror awaits me, no current to pull me.

To guide me.