finally let go

One hand belonged to grief. One belonged to guilt. One belonged to every person who ever needed a piece of me and never learned when to stop taking. The others— God— I stopped counting long ago. They rise from the darkness beneath me, pale fingers wrapped around my ankles, my wrists, my throat. Each one pulling in a different direction. Be stronger. Be softer. Forgive. Fight. Stay. Leave. Love them. Save them. Save yourself. The ocean inside my chest cannot decide which command to obey. Darling— there are shipwrecks living beneath my skin. Entire graveyards of former selves. The girl who trusted. The woman who waited. The survivor. The monster. All of them buried beneath the waves, all of them reaching upward through black water, begging to be chosen. At night I hear them. Their voices churn beneath my ribs like storms trapped beneath ice. They claw. They plead. They accuse. And still the tide rises. The cruelest part is this: I am not afraid of drowning. I am afraid of surviving. Afraid that I will claw my way back to the surface again, coughing up salt and ghosts, only to discover another sea waiting. Another storm. Another collection of hands. So I float motionless, half woman, half wreckage, while the darkness below argues over who gets to keep me. And somewhere beneath them all, something ancient opens its eyes— waiting for me to finally let go.