Water — (High and Dry) by Alexandra Levasseur

Greetings from Underground

How can I be so far removed from the person reflected on the mirror?

How is it that I cannot even relate to my own reflection?

I hate this shagreen, claiming to be a skin

This shed snake skin, claiming to be a body

So trivial and undesirable

So insignificant and soulless.

Other times, my body grows so heavily on me

I cannot get out of bed, I sink down, down in a sheet-made hole

The load is too much for me, mother

Pardon me if I cannot rise and shine

If I shut the drapes like a rabid bat.

I hate the way I speak, my blistered lips, the insignificances I utter

The fact that I open my mouth, mime something, gesture and flap

Yet I produce nothing, I live for naught.

I hate the comedy my life is, the parody of a person that I am

The way I die a million deaths the minute a memory rushes over me

Slapping my salty cheek like a wave of shame and disgust crushing on the shores of a once-upon-a-peaceful beach.

I hate myself and the mess I am today and the fact that no one knows

No one knows

The way I am so aware, blindingly aware

I hate that I am weak and frail and empty

And that no amount of words or prayers or books or embraces can do me good.

Mother, I want to become mute

I don’t want to breathe anymore

Everything that gets out of me is a waste.

See me,

I am in darkness


I am in darkness


I am in darkness