Riptide

That girl arguing with her boyfriend

(you see her over there?) . . .

She got drunk

for rage,

for competition,

for jealousy,

for envy,

for daring,

and for oceans and oceans of

pain.

Wanted a voice

so bad,

wanted to tell them about home

(they were just so deaf to pain),

she never knew exactly where

or how

she'd land,

because the point was

the voice,

her voice --

talked down,

shouted down,

insulted down,

frightened down,

shamed down,

shut down

too many ways

in too many places

for far too long.

Bizarre drinking

gave her a voice

(she thought).

Swimming in Kamikazes

gave the pain

a texture,

a shape,

a reality --

until headlights shone into the

drunk-driven car

at a deadly intersection,

and she could do nothing,

not even speak,

because she could barely breathe

for the ocean of Kamikazes

rising within her,

slowing her heart,

knocking her out again and again

in the back seat,

leaving her paralyzed,

helpless

even to ask

for help to breathe.