I cut through the water with the skill of a hot knife with smooth butter.
I call it tension,but it only eases me as I glide through the deep waters with the best of my agility.
As a child I was taught to resist the current. Fight it,fight against everyone and everything. Be a rebel,be angry. Be proud.
I was taught to wage war against the water,but I see how it resembles the tension in the room when me and my mother stand against each other. Water is tangible.
I grasp the edges of the element,almost crossing the threshold of life and death in way.
I stroke the water's back,relishing the feel of warmth and coolness on my skin as I bite into my lip and taste the freedom of metal.
I was taught to fight the water,but I have been taught to unlearn the tongues that were coaxed into me and my honeysuckle tongue,the lavish luxury of homesickness glazing my speech like an alcoholic's slur.
We are not friends.
The water rushes against me,and my inexperienced self thrashes wildly against it,forgetting that you have to accept it. Accept the force,let yourself go with how the world works.
I throw myself under the depths of the water,seemingly soft but sharp enough to kill you,I hear the sound of my earthy limbs acquaint itself with the familiar sound of struggle.
I try to grab the water. Use it as a support,but it refuses.
So I fight,all over again.
