the waves

i get called to the scene, nothing specific except ‘she’s hurt’. i walk up the stairs already pulling gloves onto my hands.
i size her up.
she is young, a freshman, with flawless skin and dangerous curves but a face that betrays her continuing ignorance of these powers. her eyes are burning wide with horror so that she looks precisely like a deer in headlights. she doesnt want to tell me what happened, exactly, or who was involved, but i come to understand that yet another vodka-breathed boy has succumbed to his inner violence.
i check her vitals, make small talk, but as her eyes well up with tears,
all i want to do is touch her cheek and say
oh honey, you wont never be as weak as him, you won’t never be as flawed as that moment when his morality finally failed him. fuck, i am so sorry that your introduction to their nature had to come as quick and and brutal as the atlantic ocean flooding the mouth of an overboard passenger. aint much to do now but gather up your body and lower your expectations: the world's cold blue horizons don't care much. oftentimes people forget,
and then they drown on account of their own foolish chains, made of iron and stretching for miles through the dark water.