I slip in and out of the water
and adjust my surgically-adapted fins,
I got the tempo right finally.
The other sea-creatures see my fins,
but have no clue
which surgeon crafted them.
They watch me dive,
the sunlight glinting off my scales
and guess based on my
They should really look
at the way my fins move.
They are always wrong.
Those that dwell in my cave,
They’ve observed my movements
for long enough
to know they are not innate.
They like to show off their knowledge,
ruin my “little game”
at trying to “pass” as one of them.
The thing is, I am one of them.
I just had to get some help.
Some of them even tell me,
it is not and will never be my sea
since I wasn’t born in these sands.
I swish my fins to send bubbles at them.
This sea accepts me,
gave me the right temperature and pressure
to live here.
is (now) my home.
I (should) am (be) enough.