a metaphor for emily.

I wish you would believe you could be with someone deserving of you. Micah Clare is a nice kid, we should all be friends. I have nothing against him! I only have something against the mathematical equation you seem to be trying so hard to create for the sake of feeling lovely, for the sake of hiding from lonely. "You+Him."

I never even liked math. 

You deserve a guy that fits your list! At least some of it. At least any of it. You deserve that.

You deserve everything. You're Emily-fucking-Garinger! In my eyes, you deserve the world!

In my eyes, you are the ocean. And Clare is a lukewarm cup of tap water.

You are crashing waves and rolling tides; you draw in the world and spit out your refuse, and sink the things you like inside. He is contained within his paper cup, he cannot hold the great wreck of a ship within his confines! If he tries to do what the ocean does, all he is will be shoved out and there will be nothing of him left, nothing left in his crumpling shell. 

Neither may you comfortably crawl, possibly fit, into a container like his. Your salty waters are not suited to stillness, to smallness. And if he were to try to join you instead, he would be swept away; he would become a shipwrecked sailor, decaying and mixing with the sea.

You are the ocean!

You reflect back the traits and faces of those you admire, you reflect the endless expanse of the sky. You ripple your surface and make the images your own, a part of you unique. Nobody can ever see a whole reflection in the circular surface of a cup of water. And the bit seen will only be a still, undistorted copy. He is not big enough!

You are the fucking ocean!

You move. You swirl and shiver and tumble. He will not move. He may vibrate slightly with the bass or footsteps nearby. But it is nearly imperceptible! It is thin and only because of a stronger influence.

You are the ocean. 

You hug the world! You touch everything all at once and you give it life and you drown it. You love everything and you hate everything.


He will never reach the other continents. He will never give enough life, he will never take enough breath.

You are beautiful and great! He is on every fucking  average counter in every shitty  average home, where every sad mother and father pray for the hell-bound  souls of their children, and every no-longer-child tries to hide from/find themselves. Our stories are all the same, but we managed to grow differently.

You managed to become as huge and full and real as the ocean.

And we need cups of water, I suppose. Sometimes we need cups of water. 

But not to admire, not to love, like we love the ocean!

And hell, half the time I drink straight out of the faucet.

This is my metaphor.

It is about water instead of fire. But if you want a metaphor for that, he is a match and you are the sun. He is a breath and you are the sky. He is a blade of grass and you are the dandelion puff that defies all standard methods of taming a lawn!

Metaphors can be ridiculous. But the point is, you are the fucking ocean.