like jellyfish.

my heart is a jellyfish. waving like entrails, weightless. it stings when i try to measure its mass and i cannot help but think that sometimes, it belongs in the ocean. i lay in bed, swaying, listening to the whir of the fan, to the breathing of the man next to me that chose me, that i chose, and i smell baby skin on the other side of me and i hear creaks in the hallway when our daughter comes in the room to say she wants water. she is transparent in the middle of the night. not thirsty. but she needs the reflection of herself in my sleep addled limbs in order to fall back asleep and i get it, i do. she is a tiny baby stretched out inside little girl legs and she talks half-asleep about how she doesn't like dragons and wants to know why monkey hands taste bad. there are mornings bryan leaves for work at three am, four am, five am. these mornings, i bring the baby into bed with me to nurse and he curls against my chest and falls asleep with a long, slow exhale and i think this is why people go to aquariums. to try to illuminate what is under the surface with oohs and ahhs. you know you can't capture it or explain it or understand it completely. the closest you can do is stick it in glass cage and charge admission, share the knowledge you do know on plaques with an academic font. and you marvel at it. you get up and you shift your feet to land and they feel like bruises on the bare floor, dried out and salty. it's on these mornings that i know i am trying to be good enough. even when i'm not good. even when i'm not enough. sometimes life outside the ocean is a big, beautiful mess.