Manotonous

I have ligature marks on my ankles,
from the rope that I use
every day.

I fasten the weights of observed pain and of
of expected guilt,
of spoken sorrow,
and of your mournful shame to my dulled and
tired body, and I climb into
the water again.

I don’t want to drown.
I don’t want to die.
I want to cry tears that will be lost and forgotten.
I want to swim so hard that the ache of every muscle
is punishment enough for every time
I have failed
to
be human.

I want to struggle to breathe,
and to fear that I may swallow too much water.
That, this time –

I may not make it.

Maybe then I will care.
Maybe then I will feel something.

Like I am supposed to.

 

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