The right day will come. You will trot to the water and, accepting — finally– the sand on your throat, you will drink. And the sand will dampen. It will clump and castles will congeal in the pit of you. Every man you have kissed until parched, your eyes open, your face a reflection, a vacuum of longing; every truth you have swallowed dry and its lonely aftertaste; every rightful and wondrous desire denied; all the people who named you Ungrateful when you did nothing but prostrate yourself, deplete yourself, and lie to make peace with the lies they have told you; every person with sight who insists she cannot see you; and that well-meaning man who loves you in ways that are not water: they will find their prison here. The castles will close around them. And your long and even pulls of water will be their moats. You have flaked enough of yourself away; there are layers to replenish. Let them live on all of the you you’ve already offered, the eagerer you, who denied herself as though she were part-Peter, part-Christ, who questioned her worth whenever they behaved as if she had none, who pretended and still pretends she is unharmed. They will not die. You have been kind enough to fashion them these fine accommodations. Sand can be gorgeous as glass. You will not throw stones, lest you grow ulcers, lest you lengthen the hours of worry and wring yourself to this arid point again. You are strengthening now; you are gulping, the skin on your arms has uncrinkled. Your tear ducts have regained their dew. But the castles are becoming uncomfortable. Water dislodged the sand from your throat; you have grown a voice, but you are still housing so many hindrances. You are letting the small, incurious world of you’ve left resettle itself in you, elsewhere. You are no oyster; this past will not yield you pearls. These clumps are no castles; they’re a gathering shit.
When you are well enough — when you are whet enough — release it.