A Wigwam for a Goose's Bridle

The waves are a deep crimson, 

highlighted with scarlet foam, 

breaking against the shore

as a blush rises in a cheek,

with the same warmth, the same

sort of ostentation that cares not

if I prefer them not to be seen. 

They are felt as a flush,

as a catching in the throat.

They soak, they erode, and you ask

what they say, and they reply

in an instant, against my wishes, 

against my command (though who

am I that I think I could command these waves?)

It is but a whisper:

stop fooling yourself,

you’ll still never be enough.

And I feel like that cannot be the correct answer,

so I ignore it instantly and search for something

feasible, realistic, yet not that cruel.

Their second offering: 

stop trying to expose us.

I almost say this; this is a conversation

I feel I could navigate

with some degree of safety,

some degree of control. But you 

asked them a question, and they 

will not be silenced, repeating 

a litany: never enough, 

never enough, never

enough, and I won’t say it,

not out loud, I say because I know it’s error,

but in truth, because I fear that saying it

will give it more power. Perhaps

if I just pretend I never heard it,

heard only the lapping of waves on sand,

but just like a shell reverberating with ocean sounds,

my head will not relinquish

the whispers it heard.