the waters fine

It’s right in front of you. You’re hallucinating. Underwater. Why don’t you just breathe?

Why did you try to drown me? We thought you could swim. You pull yourself up by the bootstraps, the worn leather appendages are all that you have left. You close your eyes, descend further into the oblivion of despair. This time, it’s different, you don’t want to come back up for air.

Soot filled lungs feel like home. Every whisper of light burns, the luminance always abandons you. Through stained glass, the glare of your chains penetrates the darkness. You grimace. Did they ever love you? Two words, five letters and three people a constellation away. You were your parents only child, and to dust you have returned.


Dust turns to clay. The dust is where you will thrive. In the kiln of anguish, your rebirth transcends that momentous fault line born of their abandonment. You don’t apologize — that isn’t your job. You edify, reconnect, leaving despair with all abandon. They’ve been ignorant to the vibrations of love, so you tune them in. You cry together. They can’t believe they ever abandoned you. You breathe again. What was a monotonous glacial undercurrent that entombed your individuality is now a vector of hope.

You meet a man. He meets your mother. You all meet together in the same church that they did — your gift to them. I do. You do. Through sickness, and in health, You may kiss the, groom? On this fateful day, you’re glad that you finally learned how to swim.