She Sang in Her Chains | Ali H.
She sells seashell earrings in the museum gift shop in Clearwater, Minnesota, but she’s never seen the ocean. When she walks home the roads are grey, not green.There are no creatures floating in them. Her living room is not the frothy color of sea foam. More like previously enjoyed pea soup, and there are no pictures on the walls. She runs deep baths and lies in them until she feels soggy, not wet, but they don’t bring her one inch nearer to tasting brine in the air. She watches whales on her television, and wonders if they’re really all that big. She buys oysters frozen from supermarkets and never tells anyone her favourite colour, because the answer is too vast to fit into small talk and they don’t really care anyway that she will never love a colour more than that grainy, glassy green when the camera slides underwater that exists for the first moment, before the shark gets in the way.
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