My lungs close;
my heart pounds.
Uncertain of when Iíll breathe again;
uncertain of what waits for me above the solitude.
Do I want to emerge?
Can I take it if I do?
What waits for me when I no longer have just myself?
And yet, do I have myself now?
Am I alone here?
Even though Iím under, I can still be seen.
The connection, though blurred, is still there.
And though I want to stay,
want to avoid the exposure,
the sting of every sense rushing back,
I know I canít.
To do so would be
Though the pain will be real,
it is necessary,
And so, I move to rise
only to find I have lingered too long.
I kick, I flail, yet try as I might,
that even though I put myself here,
I canít get myself out.
And yet, there is a hand,
as if it has always been there,
reaching down beneath the surface, fully within my grasp.
It is not frantically trying to grab me,
but in control,
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