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