Love makes me seasick,

and I lurch along on land

as I walk home,

my heart limping behind me.

Home is a pit.

Home is a prison.

Every pot and knife, a fishhook

embedding me deeper here.

Once, I was free;

once, I swam sleek.

But a bad man stole my skin,

and the sea bled from my eyes.

I see through dry sockets,

and I wash with chapped hands,

trying to stem the unending tide

of kelpy rags and shell-white dishes.

Love is a net,

but I am a clever fish;

I gnaw at the knots daily,

spurred by the sound of the chopping block.