Intermediate Drowning Lessons

Uh oh.

I really got pulled into the deep end this time. Questions tangle around my legs like seaweed. The questions were always down there. They are generational in their persistence.

Why do I love a poet whose words break me open but scorn the part of myself that feels all the same things and just as turbulently? Maybe there is art to be made from all this junk. But how do I build anything beautiful when all I have is a howling emptiness and oppositionally defiant thumbs?

What language must I learn to whisper to the animal within that keeps grabbing at the wheel when that animal is more alive than the voice shouting ‘it’s my turn to drive!’

Inner peace my ass. It's a zoo up in here.

How does one negotiate with a biological imperative that flings poo and steals silverware?

How does one change the pattern of slamming a fist on a hot stove over and over, equal parts hungry and mad? I’ve learned that’s not how cooking works.

My candy coating dissolves leaving tiny skinless limbs treading water. Becoming water. The word I'm reaching for is 'vulnerability' and I'm almost certainly doing this all wrong. I’m just trying to listen better and see more clearly and finally live right. I’m swimming where my ancestors drowned. But you have always been kind to me and that makes being seen like this a bit less terrifying.

My appetite is showing, isn't it?

Do you still want to be my friend?

The water is nice once you get used to it and treasures glimmer in the depths. We can play that game where no one ever knows what could happen next, and lately I've gotten much better at not devouring my friends.