I know most people find the beach relaxing, but when I’m standing on the shore at high tide, watching the effect of the moon on the great oceans of the world, I wonder what effect it has on my insides. After all, they’re more than half water themselves.

I’m afraid to go anywhere near the beach during a full or new moon. Those are spring tides, when even low tide is higher than usual. If I went near the ocean at that time, I fear I wouldn’t be able to resist the moon’s gravitational pull and be dragged out to sea.

I track the moon’s phases on my calendar. I start to feel extra full, bloated even, during those spring tides. On neap tides, occurring every quarter moon, high and low tide are reduced, and it doesn’t matter how much water I drink. It’s never enough to quench my thirst.

It’s the first evening of a new moon, and my body is restless. I’m too bloated to fit into any of my jeans, and not one shirt in my closet sits comfortably around my middle. So when I wander outside into the dark, dark night, it is in my most natural state. Gritty sand sinks under my toenails as I crest the dune that separates my backyard from the ever-flowing waves of the ocean.

Fear surges in again, forcing my frantic heart into my throat. I can’t stop, though. Not when I can feel everything within me writhing and clawing at my skin. Salt water touches my toes, and the floodgates open. From my mouth, nose, eyes, and ears, my body answers the moon’s call. Water pours from me like an unattended faucet.

The water leaves my blood, then my organs, then my muscles. What is left of me shrivels until I am little more than a grape transformed by an unforgiving sun.

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