father

There is an ocean rolling in my head. Salty waves hitting splashes of white foam against my skull. All this whiteness of passive aggression that I got from my father. The forever-pushing-down force that chokes me every moment I see bright colors.
There are other waves crashing against wider shores somewhere I need to reach someday. I catch a plane that never lands and hope my flight ends in white fog, softer than my mind and tasteless, sweet nothing.
Like water sliding down a throat silently, neutral, not warm nor cold. Not black or white or bright. Like a sad toothache in the back of my head pounding down my nervous system shaking me slightly against firm walls.
I see rage in the horizon somewhere.
Somehow, I am.
And soon melted.