she walks into the sea to cleanse herself
from the hurt that flooded her
when he called her a
whore
with handfuls of brine
she douses his vernacular, vile and full of harm,
erases it from her mind
barters the words for the soft-spoken sweetness
he used to ensnare her heart and soul
she’s not here to clear his conscience
she’s not here to lift his guilt
let him face the love he
crushed with his thoughtless thirst
she scours her body with sand and stone
struggles to escape the hissing voice
that tells her to let
his words rip her to
shreds and drown
in the force of a surf that will
steal her life
Mina Witteman 