He walks on the waters I drown in

I don’t talk about it.

Because when I try—when I press the weight of my heart into the tight cage of a sentence—

it shrinks. It sounds like a pebble, when inside,

it is a storm tide.

No one sees the wave beneath my skin,

how it rises without warning,

how it crashes silently while I smile.

They don’t hear the salt in my prayers

or the hush of my hope when I’m asked, “How are you?”

So I nod.

And I carry the ocean alone.

Or so I think.

But oh, my soul—

God sees the deep.

He walks the waters I drown in.

He cups every current in His hands

and calls even the chaos “Beloved.”

He does not ask me to explain

what aches beyond language.

He knows.

He is not afraid of the flood inside me.

He does not despise the silence of the unsaid.

Even the sigh I hide in my sleep

rises to His throne.

So I rest—not in being understood,

but in being held.

Held by the One who carved the seas

and now parts mine,

so I may walk through

on dry ground.

And when I cannot speak it,

He still hears it.

Every tide. Every tear.

Maybe the ocean I carry is a gift to draw me nearer.

All of it sacred.

All of it seen.