Hypothesis Sea

If I take you to the reef of my mind,

then you must promise to swim out further than the tides.

—

I have a hypothesis:

I’ve only ever ironed clothes twice in my life,

but maybe strangers touch the metal to tell if it’s hot

so they know how badly they’ll be burned

by professing their love

to the wrinkled skirts and shirts

about to cloak who they really are–

the outfit won’t refuse them, no:

people love them,

in their button-up blazers

and pressed school skirts,

and they want the people to love them,

don’t they?

—

but if the people knew you

in a wetsuit,

grinning with

mismatched, polka-dot,

mint green and ivory flippers,

eyes raccoon-round behind silver goggles,

how would they ever love you?

This real you?

Burn, you, professing love you didn’t mean, to protect yourself from being seen.

—

I’ve only ever ironed clothes twice in my life,

the blazers and skirts make my hips itch, my shoulders shiver:

I pick not to be professional,

because even when the people love me,

somebody’s bound to dislike me,

and that’s fine,

but my whole life

my best defense

against the haters and the bullies

has been to never have any.

I hide my wetsuit self in the shadows,

under baggy hoodies,

it’s fine if they don’t love me, as long as they don’t hate me.

—

But I choose today, to be courageous.

If I take you, to the coral reef of my mind,

then please join me out past the tides,

please dive beside the turtles,

wear mismatched flippers of electric violet and poppy pink,

wetsuit blue beneath the lionfish and stingrays.

If I take you, to the coral reef of my mind,

then I will prepare for the poison strike

when you abandon me.

But I pick this courage of showing off my wetsuit outside the shadows–

no ironing clothes

a third time

because that burn

I’d rather bury

beneath the silted sea floor.

***

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