I’m squatting in a chairless bathysphere,
a rusted windowed pearl of a vessel,
leagues away from any honest light or life.
I’m locking my knees to pointed right angles,
trying to keep the tendons taut;
if they relax for a single moment,
the surrounding ocean will spill in.
It comes down to the reflective question:
Is it better live isolated and uncomfortably,
Or slowly die with your atmosphere stuffing your throat?
The answer should be obvious,
but when your thighs scream and your forehead melts,
it’s hard to put yourself on such a pedestal.
I sweat and focus on how satisfied I will be if I keep squatting;
How impressed others’ll be and the things they’ll say!
Against all odds and immeasurable pain, he tensioned his body for *** days.
Imagining such quotes warmed me, and filled me with a salted hope.
And as I obsessed over their admiration,
a sudden shock went through my body, following a swift splash of skin.
My *** hit the cast-iron floor.
My eyes capped white in panic and reprieve.
I gasped -