This is the only place I have ever known.
Isolated by a bubble of small town
sentiments
The outside world seems impossible
to reach.
I have been taught how to conform by
Teachers I have known my whole life.
They preach for us to be ourselves,
But to do it quietly.
You cannot be both “out” and “proud.”
You have to choose one. 
It has been years since I have seen
A new face.
Everyone seems to be leaving and yet
No one is ever coming.
We are all slowly dying here.
Our blood is thick with the broken
Promises of change and acceptance.
Our bodies filled with malignant
Complacency.
This town is terminally ill and
Everyone refuses to accept the diagnosis.
There is nothing left to explore here.
The trails behind the reeds
Are so familiar that my footprints are
Forever embedded in the mud.
The waves have stopped telling me stories.
They do not wash up anything interesting anymore.
The only thing they leave are broken
seashells and shattered people.
I do not remember what fresh air feels like.
A salty, sticky fog hangs over us like
Terrible guilt.
I wonder if I am the only one
who can smell it.
This town is falling apart at the seams.
We stitched together wounds with
Sea salt, vodka, and thread
But were surprised when
Infection spread.
We are just closed minds and open wallets
Keys are obsolete here since the only
Thing that opens doors is
Money.
Each day I wait for the sea to
Finally decide to swallow us whole.
Until then, we will all continue to live the
Lie that the rising tides mean
Nothing.