In My Deep Blue - Cleopatra Sanchez

I tend to write at night. 

Searching for the answer in my mind. 

A whirlwind of ideas 

flow like a sailboat 

in an ocean full of apprehensiveness 

built up as I drift away. 

The tides raise an occurrence 

where I told a guy 

that he can’t be a feminist 

because his masculinity 

will always cloud his vision. 

Clouds that build up as the wind pitches. 

The ocean tosses and a new memory seeps in. 

I sat and prayed 

in an auditorium full of people who did not care as a 5-year-old little girl wished for her father back. 

She was apprehensive about the 

large body of blue 

because deep down she knew.

That the water would start to entrap me as the idea of you not coming back to me engulfs the sailboat. 

How I’ll never hear your voice. 

How I’ll always make noise. 

But the only person listening 

is one that is not near. 

Dad, why aren’t you here? 

Here with me in this fucking boat 

cupping your hands, trying to keep us afloat. 

You left that little girl stranded, stuck with 

the intimacy deprived 

self who desires anatomy. 

I want to be independent, but I want you to just be part of me. Part of who I am is lost without you. 

I’m lost at sea. 

Sinking deep 

With no one to 

remember you but me. 

Who will console my brother 

when I can’t remind him of you? 

Who will listen to his tales of advantage when below

is deeper than a tomb? 

I’m sinking. 

I’m sinking deeper and deeper. 

Past all the people. 

I’m tempted by the desire 

of a deep slumber. 

One that will exempt me from a lifetime. 

I do not wish to enact 

such a complex inclination. 

While I sift through the spectacle of my 

imagination.