The words failed me. Not because my throat was scorched raw with salt, nor because my mind was burned out by the heat. They failed me because you were too quick to put others in my mouth.
You said I was a starfish, and they believed you.
You said I was a gift, and they believed you.
You said I was a solution, and they believed you.
Somehow, even when they threatened you, berated you, looked down their noses and bared their fangs at you, you made them accept me as the answer to their prayers. They carried me to your home, brought me food and sweet water. They dressed wounds I barely knew I had, and they loved me like I would shatter otherwise.
You painted me as a message, sealed up in glass and cast to the waves. You made me an omen.
I did not believe you.
