by Katy Naylor


I am jellyfish nerves on the very top of my skin all uncontrolled tentacles yearning floating pushed against pebbles by the tide and back out to sea again flailing outwards for weight or grounding or contact liable to sting

I am seaweed on the skin of the waves out of place if I can just relax just relax maybe I can stay moving float wide gently tangling not end up scraped flat smeared defeated against the rocks leave me too long in the sun I’ll start to stink don’t say I didn’t warn you
I am the small-shelled thing wriggling dislodged from my rockpool faintly puzzled tumbling in a sea too wide too fast beyond my understanding
I am lost moving in circles trapped by footprints of my own making too dazed by the flare and the dazzle of it too late to realise that at sunset when the water turns rose gold it’s the final warning before it fades to black


Katy Naylor lives by the sea, in a little town on the south coast of England. She writes in the time that falls between the cracks. Previous publications include work in Ellipsis Zine, The Daily Drunk and the Bear Creek Gazette.



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