The Shipwreck and The Crumbling Temple

My body is an old ship, weathering a continuous storm. Smaller storms should feel like pebbles. Nevertheless, they pound me into rocks.

I come away with bruises from a poke,
a needle,
a bra.

Each time I feel the storm let up, to give me a break and collect my bearings, I’m made a hopeful liar.

It’s raining outside,
again.

The storms hit me like hurricanes.

I feel beaten,
sore,
exhausted.

This body feels like a ship in the middle of wrecking, throwing people overboard as I toss and turn and writhe in pain.

I do not truly ‘sleep’ anymore, not as others do. I nap for an hour here, two hours there, until pain throws me back into the waking world unprepared for the horrors I wake up to.

In the daylight, I can at least see my terrain. I know where the rocks lie, and I can avoid them. The fog, once thick enough to cloud my lungs, returns as the sun sets over the horizon. My breathing, once calm and mindful, becomes a new beast. My deepest breaths begin to resemble that of a parent birthing an heir.

I’ll have no heir. No person should need to inherent my existence, to see my soul tormented so.

As the darkness grows deeper, I can no longer avoid the rocks. The sea, gently gliding me in the daytime, becomes a monster throwing me to and fro. I no longer know which side is starboard.

I cannot sleep in my quarters, next to my lover. As the cursed vampire Dracula stole Lucy away, I too am forced to a different space. These storms, not unlike Dracula himself, chase me through the night.

Sometimes, I awaken to notice my legs running from this thief,
this vampire,
this storm.

Despite it all, my hopeful heart believes that I will make it to the morning,
the next day,
the weekend.

I try to combat the storms. I tie down all that is holy to me, anchoring them upon my bow. Leading my way through the darkness with this love guiding me seems safe. Well, safer than leading with my actual eyes. Looks, as I have learned, are deceiving in the storms.

And yet, despite my efforts, all signs point to an ending to come. There will be a time, and I’m afraid it is in the not-too-distant future when that promise of daylight does nothing. Like a thief in the night, the reaper will come for my soul. There will be no fond farewells, no happy send-offs or kisses on the forehead – just me.

We will never learn the answer to the riddles within my depths. No keys in existence can unlock the chests full of medical treasure within my hull.

Those who say our bodies are temples to be worshiped and adored have not visited this ship. They do not writhe with me in the night or awaken to new bruises and symptoms of the wreck to come. No, like Molly Brown herself, they believe they are unsinkable.

My body is no temple – or, if it is, it’s one that sits, long forgotten, until pain comes to steal its few treasures. I stand proud, alone in the wild until the booby traps snap into action.

As the thief, the raider of my tomb runs for her safety, I begin to crumble,
piece
by
piece.

In my place, I leave damage and destruction. It, too, will be forgotten. No tourists will visit my wreck and exclaim,
“O, woe is me!
I have not seen this broken land in its prime!
How did I never know such things of beauty and pain can coexist, side by side?”

No one will come to gaze upon my wreckage and wonder what else could have been done. Underwater machines will not visit my bones on the ocean floor, filming their journeys for posterities’ sake. No one will wonder what gold or charming grace is left in my depths.

No growth will come from my loss. People will not recognize the harm they’ve done by refusing my entry to calm and steady piers. They will say, “That ship was always heading for a wreck. It lasted quite a while longer than I thought it would.” Instead of mourning, people will remember only my storms that affected them.

After over a year of constant storms, amidst those caused by an ever-changing climate, the daylight stays a little longer. The fog begins to ease up and, for the first time in months, I can breathe.

For the first time in a long time, moorings appear. Instead of having to beg to be seen, someone tosses me a line.

My ship will, I know, wreck itself upon the rocks someday… but that someday is not today.