"Inheritance"

She was the shelter

for storms that weren’t mine.

Built rafts for the drowning world

while I coughed up salt in the attic.

She mothered like a lighthouse

that forgot where home was.

Always blinking in the distance,

warning ships to stay safe

but never once steering back

to the wreckage she left me in.

And then there was him.

The ship that never stayed docked.

When he was here,

the air felt lighter.

He laughed with the kind of warmth

that made me believe love could be easy.

He circled her glow

like he was searching for something

only her light could name.

And she burned brighter when he was near,

as if guiding him was the only way

she knew how to love.

But lighthouses do not move

and ships do not stay.

Even as he held me,

I could feel the tide pulling him away.

Their voices would sharpen against the wind,

light flickering, engines revving,

until the horizon swallowed him whole again.

His absence smelled like salt and gasoline.

Every goodbye left an echo in my ribs.

And he sailed away again,

his promises fading

like the sound of a motor on open water.

She stood at the shore,

watching him disappear,

her light still reaching

for a silhouette already gone.

They were always almost

finding each other.

Almost forgiving.

Almost staying.

Until the wind shifted

and love turned sharp again.

And every time they fractured,

the tide dragged pieces of me out with it.

He was adventure.

She was safety.

At least that’s what they told themselves.

But they were only ever chasing each other

across the horizon,

two silhouettes passing in the mist

while I stood between them,

small and unseen,

waiting for someone to turn around.

I grew up on leftovers.

Emotional crumbs swept

off tables I wasn’t invited to.

Called it dinner.

Called it enough.

Told myself love looks like hunger

if you wait long enough.

Always giving,

always glowing,

always there

but never here.

Not where I needed them.

Not for me.

She said I was strong

but what she meant was

I wouldn’t break loud enough

to make her look.

I screamed once

but she only heard

someone else’s tears.

Always someone else.

Always.

She called it strength

when I swallowed the ache.

Called it maturity

when I folded my needs

into apology letters

she never opened.

And now I carry

a storm with no name.

Lightning stitched into my spine.

I flinch at comfort

and question kindness

because they taught me

that love is earned

and I never earned enough.

She was a healer

for wounds she didn’t birth.

He was a wanderer

who mistook leaving for freedom.

And I

I was the shoreline

eroding quietly

every time they chose each other

over me.

There were no alarms

when I was left.

Just the tide pulling back

again and again

while the lighthouse kept shining

and the ship kept chasing light.

I became the raging sea.

White caps breaking their names against the dark.

A storm loud enough to split the horizon.

Rain striking my own surface, begging to be seen.

A child who learned

to parent herself

because no one came back

for her.