I enjoy pointing my toes,
Pushing my hands into my thighs,
And jumping into a spot in the lake,
Where it is seemingly bottomless.

It often feels like the past.
The compression on my cranium is depression.
The depletion of air in my lungs is anxiety.
The vacant water that grasps me are my thoughts.

Floating to the top,
Yearning for my hands to create a whirlpool overhead,
Whose vortex could take me to the past,
To the flaws, tween stages, and grades that didn’t matter.

To inform past me,
That she’ll be okay.
That’d be me,
Pleading to know.

But in this moment,
I seem to be the girl that just,
Involuntarily drowns,
In her own lake of metaphors and insecurities.