I Can’t Swim

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.