Swimming Lessons
My frame
is draped in flesh.
An awkward suit;
An unnatural, uncomfortable costume for my soul.
It’s ungainly, and it doesn’t fit--
like new clothes, always foreign on the bones.
I am swimming in it.
I fear I will drown.
I tread water desperately.
My stomach cramps with the effort.
Self-denial is a tough way to stay afloat.
I am sure that I must do this on my own.
Friends and family watch,
still and helpless on the shore.
A lifeguard splashes in,
then another,
and another.
I beat them away.
I don’t want to be saved.
I’d rather climb out of this vast, acidic sea,
this raging, unforgiving torrent,
step by step and day by day,
starving my body, my mind, and my soul.
I don’t care if there’s a waterfall ahead.
All I want is to get out of this ocean of skin.
Others tell me I am dry--
dehydrated--
lacking what I need to stay alive.
They tell me I’m collapsing into scorching desert sand.
I don’t believe them.
Emaciation is no cure for this feeling;
no matter what the scale says,
I am swollen,
bursting from my skin,
The pressure builds.
How can I be emptied?
Let the pressure erupt like a geyser,
flying out at the mouth and burning the nose?
I am drowning.
Drowning.
Drowning.
I try to climb out, but I can’t.
Lost in the rapids,
I begin to get scared.
I would take a hand,
if it were offered,
by my fingers are slippery now--
I can’t get a grip.
A life preserver would be welcome.
I fight desperately.
Someday, they tell me,
I’ll learn how to swim.