a canvas stretched wide,
bathed in sun and light,
the air alive with motion.
They swim in the rhythm of waves,
their bodies weightless,
their laughter endless.
But I am still.
Still as stone,
bound by a body
that feels like it isn’t mine.

Their eyes—
arrows, silent but sharp,
cut through the fragile armor I wear.
Each gaze slices deeper,
each glance whispers a truth
I cannot escape:
“You don’t belong.”

The thought of the water haunts me.
Its surface a mirror I dare not face,
its depths a question I cannot answer.
To strip away these layers,
to stand exposed,
feels like peeling flesh from bone.
I imagine their stares—
unrelenting,
unyielding.
The weight of their silence crushes me.
I can’t breathe here.
Not like this.

I stood on a podium once,
but it felt like a stage.
The cheers wrapped around my throat,
their applause thundered in my chest.
I smiled,
because that’s what they wanted,
but my legs trembled
beneath the weight of their eyes.
Every look was a blade,
every smile a mirror.
I wanted to run,
but there was nowhere to hide.

Inside, a war rages.
“You’re too much.
You’re not enough.
You don’t deserve to be seen.”
The words etch themselves into my skin,
leaving scars I can’t show.
This body is a house of shattered glass,
each shard reflecting the person
I cannot become.

My hands scratch at my arms,
as if I could claw my way out,
as if this skin were a suit I could shed.
My leg bounces,
my breath falters.
The air feels sharp,
too heavy to swallow.
I close my eyes,
wishing myself into nothingness.
To vanish—
to be unseen, untouched.

The thought of their company terrifies me.
Every move I make feels wrong,
every step a mistake.
The fear pulls me under,
its grip unrelenting,
its weight unbearable.

I sit here,
watching the world drift by,
its colors bright and blurred.
The waves rise and fall,
but I remain still,
a stone sinking quietly into the earth.
I don’t want to swim today.
Not today.
Not with this body
that anchors me to a depth
I cannot escape.

It aches.
A quiet, endless ache.
Each second stretches longer than the last.
But somewhere—
beneath the weight,
beneath the fear—
there is a whisper:
“Not today, but maybe someday.”

Perhaps one day,
this body will be a garden,
and not a battlefield.
Perhaps one day,
I will stand in the sun,
whole and unbroken.
But today, I sit here,
with this fear,
with this body,
learning to breathe,
learning to live.
And I try to believe
that even this—
even this—
will not last forever.