Let The Sea Take Me

Ask me again,
would I rather drown in the sea
or be left alone in a room with a man
whose smile splits like a switchblade?

I’d still choose the ocean.
I’d rather be swallowed whole by saltwater,
lungs collapsing in brine,
than feel fingers crawl up my spine
pretending to be comfort.

The sea doesn’t pretend.
It does not purr your name
only to turn it into a choking hazard.
It does not grin
while stealing your power in pieces.

They say if a riptide catches you, don’t fight it…float.
It will carry you out
before it brings you back.
But when a man drags you under,

there is no returning.
Only a woman-shaped wound in the world.

The ocean may crush you,
but at least it doesn’t lie.
At least it won’t whisper “you liked it”
while pressing your screams
into the wallpaper.
At least the sea won’t sit in court
wearing your shame like a necktie,
won’t ask what skirt you wore,
how many drinks you had,
how much of your soul was visible.

The ocean won’t tell you
it was a misunderstanding.
it won’t beg for forgiveness
and still blame you in the same breath.

It won’t gaslight your memories
until even your own mind doubts the wound.
It won’t make your body feel foreign,
like your skin now speaks a language
you don’t remember learning.

Ask me again,
would I rather brave the storm
or let a man undress my no?

You can’t gaslight a tsunami.
You can’t handcuff the tide.

You can’t teach the sea shame.

But men,

men who mistake possession for love,

are the only ones

who can look you in the eyes

and erase you from the inside out.

And then they’ll ask:

Why didn’t you fight?

As if we’re not fighting still,

every day we wake up

and choose to stay,

to speak,

to exist in a body

they tried to empty like a purse

on the side of the road.

They’ll ask:

Why didn’t you scream?

Not knowing we did

in the shower,

in the room,

into pillows,

into God’s ears.

Screamed so loud,

our own throats became strangers to us.

So yes,

I’d rather be lost at sea

than be touched

by someone who thinks my silence

is consent.

At least the ocean would never

make me say thank you.

At least the ocean

doesn’t ask me to smile

when I’m bleeding.

At least the ocean

won’t stay in my bed

long after it’s gone,

won’t stain my laughter,
won’t turn every hug

into a survival tactic.

The sea might bury me,

but it will not blame me

for dying.

It won’t call me dramatic.

Won’t say I’m making it up.

Won’t make my trauma

a courtroom performance.

To be devoured by waves

is to vanish with dignity.

But to be touched by a man

who sees your body as a canvas

for conquest,

that’s a slow death

with your eyes wide open.

So yes,

I’d still choose the ocean.

Because salt may sting,

but it never asks

if you were “asking for it.”

~Saira Sam