Digging in the Sand

Where the waves slide over the sand
I sit,
gleefully digging into the sandy mud
for no real reason.
The waves feel so natural rolling over my body,
so soothing.
But every time those waves retreat to the ocean,
I find my work refilled with sandy mud.
For all my digging, I've barely made a dent.

The sun crawls across the sky, and the waves
break further back.
And I continue digging this hole I thought
I didn't care about.

Soon the waves barely reach the hole I dig.
Only a small stream of sandy mud trickles in,
and the hole is getting deeper at last.

When the water barely stretches to my toes,
my hair is salty and grimy against my neck
and my swimsuit is warm and itchy
without the waves to wash the sandy mud.
But it is no real inconvenience.
Not really.

My fingernails begin to chip and tear,
eroded by sharp cubes of salt and pebbles
that were once too deeply buried
to harm me.
But it is no big loss.
My nails will grow back.

The waves can't reach me anymore,
and my arms grow tired with effort
as I dig deeper into the hardening sand.
This sand once kept moist and compliant by the waves
now fiercely resists me,
but my acid-filled arms aren't done yet.

Deeper I dig into the shore,
the waves so inviting but so far away.
Broken shards of shells and rocks
slice into my blind fingers.
Sharp pangs radiate into my palms,
but soon it is merely a throb
and there is no reason to
interpret a throb as pain.

Sand clogs the cracks of my torn skin,
mingling with the slow trickle of my blood.
So maybe this hole is a part of my body now,
and maybe I am a part of it.
And maybe I could have realized this sooner
if not for those sweet, soothing waves.

But those waves are so distant now
and oh,
how much harder it is to keep digging
into the sandy mud.

My swimsuit reeks of drying ocean
and irritates my skin.
My fingernails have all been chipped and ripped away
and my muscles burn
and blood mixes with sand.

The tide,
sweet tide that once protected me from these things
is so distant.
How much I loved that soothing water,
and how much I miss it now
as broken shells cut my reckless fingers.
But no longer can it refill this hole I dig,
this purpose of mine that I didn't know
I cared about.
No longer can the sweet water slow me,
and maybe I never needed its comfort,
its protection,
and maybe I could have realized it sooner.

I've dug this hole so much deeper than I thought I could,
and I remind myself that a throb is not a pain
as I force my hands into the sandy mud.