Sinking

Ever since I was born everyone around me has been throwing me in the water and then dangling the buoy over my head, Holding their hand out and daring me to grab hold only to get slapped for falling for the lie of a safety raft. After the same cycle of being pushed into the frigid water and then being dragged back out with salt still on your skin, you learn how to tread the water and learn the currents. You even start to jump in yourself, finding comfort in the bottomless blue of the sea. My mom tells me stories of past family members who sank too far and were left stranded at the bottom. My mind wanders to the same question, “Maybe they found their Atlantis?”

The night I jumped in myself, the salt in the water had become sugar to me in the bitter sweetness of the ocean. I stepped in with waves sucking me into the place I found to become my home. That's what home is right? I dunk my head under, pushing myself deeper into the water. I keep going deeper even when my lungs threaten my nose and mouth to inhale. My surroundings look clearer, like a thin sheet of glass was finally held up to show the beauty. I feel the soft light creeping from between the waves with small fish brushing against my hand.

 Is this how Icarus felt after he fell? The cool water stinging and soothing the burnt wax that scorched his skin must have been a relief, the wax washed off from the rapids but the wounds were still there, and so was the fire burning you inside and out, reaching for the sun.

At first it’s fun, the tides drifting you further from shore. Seeing fish glide by like whispers. You even start to let the water seep into your lungs, it’s intoxicating feeling yourself sink. However, I didn’t realize I was sinking; it wasn't even a possibility to me, I only felt the water.

I think I noticed something was wrong when the light from above the water was getting dim. The water in my lungs had become a small pool that was weighing me down deeper. Shells of landmines from past wars stay anchored to the bottom, the spikes warning passing fish to only come close if they dare. It’s just a shell. It won’t explode. It was once full of gunpowder and shrapnel, but now it just sits at the bottom acting scary because scary is the only thing it’s ever known.

My lungs ache. The creatures around me looked more like lanterns, as though they were trying to lead me home. It’s dark and quiet, and peaceful. There’s nothing below me for miles, and nothing above me but a prayer. Every so often a soft glow will float by. I used to grab hold in hopes it would empty the water from my lungs and wring me out. But I used to do that. I used to want to swim deeper. I used to miss the bitterness of the salt in the water. Now I want to wash off the salt and peel off the skin that touched it. 

I don’t know how long ago that was. I found the bottom. I now sit in the sand with the bones of whales, who once sang a song that rumbled the earth's core. I sit with fossils of animals long forgotten. My lungs are full and the only thing I can breathe is the sea. The salt on my skin is thickly coated with no remnants of sugar left. I’m nothing but another heavy weighted shell anchored to the sea floor. I’m too tired to swim back up. There’s no one here to break the chain and no one to drain the water. My story will be told time and time again-about what you shouldn’t do, But no one seems to care about what my name is, where I’m from, or who I want to be. All they see is my blurred face in the water, but they’ll never be able to feel the weight in my lungs or the sorrow of the sand.