House in the Lake
November 16, 2018
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I’m drowning, passively
The water filling my lungs slowly
And occasionally subsiding, for a second
Just enough to let me catch my breath
The waves lapping at my words
Making me choke and stutter
Over a declaration, I have long since oppressed
“I’m not okay”
For years, the tide had moved slowly
Grabbing my ankle when my head broke the surface
When I made it to land, the waves whispered with every crest
Calling to me from the shore, pleading for me to dance
One day, I sank
And I felt myself being carried
Past the fish and the kelp and the moss and the toads
To the bottom of the lake, where a house awaited
20 ft under, the smoke still blows
And the sun still shines
And the fish seem to glide through air
With the effortlessness of a bird
I’m happy, it seems
Where the pressure on my chest
Reminds me less of death
And more of comfort
It’s not so bad down here
Where drowning is the norm
And I can tell the fish and the ducks
About my tales of woe or joy
It’s lonely when people ask me
Why I chose to be under the waves and the currents and the streams
Why I sleep with the fish and dance with the turtles
Why I can’t just come up for air and tell people how I’ve been
But my lungs have disappeared with gills in their place
And I’ve forgotten how to breathe when I’m not drowning
I’ve lived here for years with the fish and the toads
And I wish I could tell you I’m ready to walk
But I am here and here I’ll stay
Till the moment I die or learn to breathe.
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