I remember the “dead man” sink, the way
legs drag my body down.
Tangled arms block my swimmer stroke
too tired to flail.
My matted scalp bobs underneath
A bloated chest leaks bubbles to my throat
parting screams between ripples,
I breathe salt instead of clean air.
They taste like tears.
I forgot how to float.
and time between tides.
Would sinking suffice?
I roll with the current
hoping I would erode with time,
that impulses would fade
(step into the busy street,
feel the heat of the fire)
desires would climb
(see how long exposed veins flow,
swing as the weight of the rope)
urges would die.
The wave tumbles me over, surfaced
flat-backed against the world below.
Heather McCroskey, Jane of all trades, applies social learning as insight into our moral capacities and reactions to conflict in her writings. With a BA in Writing and currently completing 2D Animation, she combines verbal and visual elements in her creativity. Heather also enjoys long walks in the woods, comic books, and some cats are okay.
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