I feel like I am choking,

drowning in my unspilt tears. 

But the dams don't yet break even though the buoy in my throat is rising with the sea

and the canal that is my throat, tightens. 

 

No matter how hard my mind steers the sails away from the emotional storm within,

The crashing seas cannot help but spill over the edge of the boat. 

 

My tears are smooth like the PVC mac of a sailor

but hot. 

Hot like the burning veins of lava on a lit cigarette.

 

The salt that falls from my eyes, licks the wounds of my inner torture and stings along its journey to my chin

Before falling to the ground, apparently as insignificant as the chemical change that invoked it.

 

At least I could hope

the canvas would be dry by the time I woke.