Changing Tides
"This will always be your home."
The world, my world has
been flipped upside down
in the eighteen turns
the moon took since I was
last thrown out in the
ocean without a paddle.
Back then, an iron chain
linked me to an anchor,
dragging me into the cold,
deep water. My peripherals
blurred and darkened,
my breath diminished
under the increasing pressure.
I was scared, looking for
someone to save me, pull me
from the ocean. Breaking
the chain was impossible
because my muscles and
motor neurons were failing.
All I could do is
continue swimming with
the hope that I could
slip the links holding
me under. I didn't know
how much longer I could
keep going, but I had to.
My last thoughts were about
how my bindings were forged.
The metals were prepared
over a span of twenty years.
Each piece contained
bits and pieces of the lives
of the people who assembled it.
The first stretch was
heated with the anger
of a loveless marriage.
Smelting fires were being
stoked by two people
who had no place
playing with fire.
Its length had been doubled
in the years since. However,
the chain wasn't meant
to be this long. An anchor
wasn't part of the original
design. No one was meant
to be held captive without hope.
This chain was supposed to
be used in emergencies.
Its purpose, to pull others
out of the mud and quicksand
and take them to safety. It was
supposed to live on a wall
until that single instance occurred.
This extra length was added
instantaneously. What was
once a tool of safety, had
been turned into something that
would keep a dog in the backyard.
My chain now had parts whose
purpose was to hurt others.
One single shackle was added
to an end of the chain that
would become part of my
right ankle. It looked medieval
as if it could only be locked and
unlocked by an ancient
key, passed down the generations.
The other end was attached
to a radiator. I was kept at
arms' length, enough to see
society and consume bits
and pieces of the outside
world. My life was devoted to
finding the key.
I almost found it a few times,
hoping that maybe it had been
separated from the lock.
Perhaps it had been on someone
else's person. Maybe it
was lost in a jewelry box
or in a random junk drawer.
Sixteen months ago, I thought
it was hidden amongst the
books in a full shelf right
in front of me. What if words
obscured its location and all
I needed to do was read
between the lines.
I found a rusted skeleton key
as I was about to be dragged
away. My search allowed
my captors to catch me off
guard, exacerbating my
anxieties and desperation
to a fault, blinding me.