They say I’m strong,
but they don’t see the water rising,
don’t feel the weight in my lungs
every time I smile and lie,
“I’m fine.”

I wake up sinking
not in oceans, but in silence,
in memories I can’t bleach clean,
in screams I swallowed so long
they echo in my bloodstream.

Tried to build lifeboats
from people who only ever drilled holes.
Tried to love loud enough
to be heard above the storm,
but the waves always win
when you fight 'em alone.

My past pulls like undertow
grief, guilt, betrayal tied to my ankles.
And hope?
Hope’s a flicker in the fog,
a lighthouse I keep swimming toward
but never reach.

Some nights I just float,
arms wide, numb to the cold,
wondering if the sky will cry me dry
or if this is just how drowning feels
when nobody notices you're underwater.

But still
I breathe.
Even when it hurts.
Even when it’d be easier not to.

Because there’s something holy
about surviving tides
that were meant to take you.