I am not a morning person. And, maybe this is because I am an anchor in this ocean of sleep, and maybe it is because I long to grow gills, so I can finally breathe comfortably, but it is not. I wake up with the taste of your heart in my mouth like vinegar, and no matter how many times I scrub my teeth with bleach and baking soda they stay tainted by your longing and my tongue feels guilty for leaving you. But I push myself, and somehow make my way to the shower without choking on the fatigue in the back of my throat. As the shitty water pressure dances on my skin, I close my eyes and imagine I'm standing under a giant waterfall, which suddenly turns frigid because, fuck, Carly took too long in the shower before me and I missed my chance at warmth. Like always. But I get dressed and pretend to be confident, then check my reflection a million times before departure. My father calls me narcissistic, my sister says "shut up you're fine-eat whatever u want. You'll stay thin."
I skip breakfast.
My favourite morning activity is called "feeling the bus tires hum beneath you're muddy boot soles and pretend it is him breathing next to you." This relaxes me, as I feel myself fall into an ebbing tide with his steady verbrato. I do not miss him, just the feeling of him being there. Just like I miss her and him and all of them and suddenly the bus is pulling up to the school and I feel the pavement end and suddenly we I feel the bus crash and chunks of seats and glass shards and notebook papers and bodies fly all around me as I remain dormant waiting for the impact and now the school is underwater. I try my best to force the gills to come--I pretend I do not see the bodies all around me. I pretend I do not have a strategy of how to exit the school in any possibly emergency. I pretend that nobody notices me pressing my mouth shut trying not to inhale germs, for my tongue is already guilty enough for my illnesses. I pretend I do not see my antibodies suffocating and dropping dead all over my skin, I pretend I am not hungry, that I don't feel like eating, that lunch is just another part of my day. I pretend the plates she sits in front of me are gifts and I should be grateful, I pretend that nothing matters. In bathroom mirrors I bend myself at awkward angles, hoping to split apart so I can count the rings etched in my insides reassuring me I've made it this long. Like suddenly I'm not drowning and you're voice will come out of nowhere like this bullshit excuse for God to say I've done well. And I fucking hate the cold water and I hate my watered-down bed frame and I hate it when he insults my poetry and I hate it when he talks to me on the bus just so I don't feel lonely, I hate that she thinks I'm trying to hurt her and god I hate that I let myself be the anchor but this is my job. I stand dormant while others bustle around me. This is the flood I have always hoped for. He says I have done well and finally gives me my gills and I watch the Others flail their arms underwater, grasping for life while I laugh silently, thinking they look like frantic anenomies. And when I taste you're heart in my mouth, sour and dried-out, it makes my brain feel insecure like "damn, I am pretty fucked up." And I don't want it to feel bad because my tongue already feels bad enough for causing my illnesses and I'm tired of being something to worry about.
