Everyone brought their teacups,

their tiny porcelain mouths

pressed to the shoreline—

while I was expected to wrestle the undertow,

to baptize myself in sharks and salt.

When my faucet began to drip,

like a tired hymn through rusted pipes,

they flinched as if I’d spit blood in their faces.

If I wash up one day, bloated with seaweed hair,

the crowd on the pier will cough into their sleeves,

murmur something about the trash I forgot,

and with a sigh as sharp as gull wings:

"Guess I’ll do it myself."

The venom sounded almost grateful.

My body twitched,

like a bell struck one last time.

Forgive the water that touched your shoes.

It was never enough to stain the wood,

never enough to grow mold in the rafters.

I carried your buckets because I knew

the weight of water,

the cruel infinity of oceans.

But I never learned to build a dam.

No one taught me,

and I never asked—

and maybe that was the lesson all along.