You say those other women don’t matter, that they’re in your past. It doesn’t matter. I’m like you in that sense, I want to know, and then again, I don’t. All I can see is that you were with them first. Each of them stealing a bit of you from me, marring your surface.

They left you with scars I can’t mend. It’s too late for that. The wounds have already scabbed over, been picked at, and faded into ghostly white scars. All I could do was try and pull you from the water you were struggling to keep your head above. My grip slipped once, and I let you fall back into the blak glass of water. That makes me one of them, like them. Then I dove in after you, pulling you from the bottom and towards the surface.

I didn’t make it though, I got confused about up and down and left and right. My lungs were throbbing, throat begging me to take a breath. I opened my eyes then, and found yours. Blue meeting green in the black abyss. Then suddenly, you kicked, propelling us towards the surface. We broke together, rippling the dark water. Gasping for air. Filling our lungs with precious gas.

Then they’re there again, picking at my brain with their writing and their text messages. They smiling knowingly, whispering in my ear, “You’re just like us,” over and over. Until my throat tightens and my eyes burn, glowing green. They make me doubt you, but even more so, doubt myself. Am I enough? Pretty enough, smart enough, different enough. I hope so, because no matter how many times you say it, or how far we swim, they’re still there whispering across the abyss.