Swimming then, all of a sudden, under and still.
It's refreshing and warm, comfortable and mellow.
Limbs still. Aching.
Holding your breath so you feel your heart beat. Seeing the surface and wondering why you should keep swimming when your so tired.
Muscles cramping. Eyes tired.
A sense of relief comes as waves flow over you—like you've found home— a sense of guilt for knowing it can't be. Shouldn't be.
Swim.
You don't even gasp for breath reaching the surface. You didn't need the air, it was calm under.
Now it's more struggling, more strain, more grief. Who, what? The answer is never clear.
You know it never will be
YOU ARE READING
Fuck You, Nicely
PoetryOne finding themselves, ups and downs; streams of melancholy and yearning of the heart. Contains time stamps of a life that seem to fade too fast and rants through life lessons I often forget. There might be some triggers with eating and just mental...
