Some days,
it feels like I am outside myself
watching my child-self drown
beneath a skyless surface,
eyes wide, arms reaching,
and I, the adult,
do nothing but stare.
The water is still,
but heavy,
each second dragging me down,
each memory a stone.
My child-self drifts deeper,
hair flowing like seaweed,
a mouth open but silent,
watching the shape of me
blur in the distance.
I see the small hand
reaching upward
not angry,
not afraid,
just desperate
in a quiet, aching way.
And I,
frozen,
feel sorrow crack open
like a fault line,
a grief so old
it forgot how to scream.
I want to dive,
to pull them up,
but my feet won't move.
I don’t know why.
Maybe it’s too late.
Maybe I never learned how.
Maybe I believe I’m the one
who let them fall.
And still,
the hand rises,
the eyes search,
while I remain above,
a ghost
with lungs full of air
and a silence I can’t explain.
