I am drowning.
Do you understand that?
I am not standing at the edge of the water
waiting for someone to notice I’m struggling.
I am already under.
My lungs are burning.
My arms are tired.
I have been fighting this current for so long
I don’t even remember what it feels like
to not be exhausted.
And still—
I look up.
I look up because some stupid, hopeful part of me
keeps expecting to see something there.
A hand.
A life vest.
Anything.
Anything that says,
“Hey.
I noticed you were sinking.”
But there’s nothing.
Just water.
Just silence.
It’s Exhausting
To be disappearing beneath the surface
and still making sure everyone else has somewhere safe to breathe?
I am drowning,
and I still don’t want to be a burden.
Isn’t that messed up?
I can feel myself slipping away
and I’m still afraid to ask someone to care.
I shouldn’t have to scream underwater
just hoping someone notices the bubbles.
I have drowned alone before.
I know how to survive being forgotten.
I know how to put myself back together
with shaking hands
and pretend I wasn’t falling apart.
But this?
This feels heavier.
Because this time I knew what it felt like
to hope someone might come looking.
I knew what it felt like
to believe maybe I wouldn’t have to fight the ocean alone.
I thought maybe someone would see me sinking
and say,
“No.
Not this time.
I’m not letting you disappear.”
But I’m still here.
Still fighting.
Still tired.
Still waiting.