Drowning

by Anna Flaherty 2 years ago in sad poetry

Prose

Drowning

Drowning in waves...

It was like an echo, a fragment of her own mind, pulsing in time to her rapidly beating heart. It was slowly suffocating her, filling her lungs with its poison. The ocean was flowing over her, boundless, the power of it pushing her head beneath merciless waves. A blackness floated across her vision, and her pulse weakened. She felt herself spiraling, slipping into darkness.

Her head broke the surface of the water, shattering the strong, icy mirror. She gasped for air, fighting the grunge to open her eyes. She glimpsed the silky tendrils of oil dispersing from the wreckage, studded with red, her blood. It was almost glittering, a bright ruby under the moonlight - like sequins. The tireless ocean surged under her, pulling her down. Remorse as well as blood tasted bitter in her mouth. It stuck to her tongue, burning her throat as the oil slipped over her once more, enclosing her like treacle.

The oil made exquisite patterns off the desolate shore, from afar just a swirling rainbow. The terrifying, conclusive visions slipped in and out of her memory. The ship was tipping, its bow sinking, gradually then all at once. Her thoughts were deafening her over the sound of the white horses.

The other type of drowning

Is much quieter

Just as solitary.

From the outside just as peaceful.

There's no outward sign that you're floundering. Your breath seems steady and your face focused. Nobody would know there was a sea inside, filling your throat and head and heart and everything in between. You wouldn't see. Sometimes neither do I. I falter, confused. Everything is confused. I don't know if I want to sink or swim but I just keep drifting. I don't know who I am. Sometimes a light seeps through, a beam I can hide inside and follow. Something to believe in. But those beams of lightness are unreliable, no matter how long they've been there they can be snatched away. Cruelly, meanly.

Floundering again.

They are both real.

sad poetry
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Read next: I Am A Bullet.
Anna Flaherty

Politics student, usually buried in ink and paper...

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