Breathe

I am drowning. Slowly. The color, from my world, swirls down the cyclone of this sea, and me right along with it. It gets greyer with each passing month, then the  pace quickens. I begin to struggle as the water solidifies before me into a hand, gripping my arm roughly and pulling me through the whirl pool, dragging me in circles and circles and circles and circles as the winds whip at my face and tear through my body, the seahorses are shouting and the starfish are shrieking and the seafoam is effervescing and the stars are screaming until, finally

I reach the center, and my body slips beneath the waves.

 

Slumber takes my hand, and leads me into silence.

 

...

 

It's safer underwater, during a seastorm, isn't it?

It's quieter.

Calmer.

As I drift toward the bottom, away from the commotion, the noise becomes more muffled, and fades away.

The waves on the surface are less forgiving, but I'm better off with my head buried in the wet sand and kelp at the bottom, yes?

I open my eyes, which I realise have been squeezed shut for some time now. I look around. Everything is black and white down here. It's dark.

And silent.

The silence is deafening.

Staying down here is nice but it's not going to make the storm go away.

And so, I spread my arms like the wings of a falcon. I let my body drift, the water carrying my weight, up, up, to the surface. i float like a balloon until, for a moment's hesitation, I am unsure. I am suspended just beneath the surface. I spread my wings once more, slower this time, and push my head above the waves. The storm is still there. But it's more merciful. I'll be here, with my head above the water, for as long as it takes to see the sun peek out from behind it's grey blanket again. Until then, should you find yourself in the same grey ocean, remember me.

Remember me.

Remember me.

Remember me.

Remember me.

 

Take my hand.

 

 

 

I'm here. And you are loved.

 

This poem is about: 
Me
Our world
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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