until you have no words.

What’s left? No tickling words, a head space cleaned with the night crew, spotless in imperfection. Subdued and covered up, brushed under the rugs told to be ok now. Suck it up.

 

Dad’s arm, teaching small infant ‘neath first swim, holds billowing curls ‘neath gurgling waters, water leaking into mouths  panicked attempted to vacumm seal in the life lines of oxygen left. The seonds pass, gun shots to the mind, soul squirming, eyes twinkling with each bite of fractioned light, rewound in slow motions, trying gripping begging for it to end, twelve months passing, though not even four seconds a’met.

Then it stops. Mighty force dissipates, bobbing head gasping for air, crashing through waters walls. Stillness ensues. Things rearranged, hidden in the spaces. Slowly, steadily treading to shore, naked body trickling in substance not his.

 

And so, it all vanishes. So the story goes. You’ll meet this moment again. I assure you. And you’ll wipe your brow, mop your shivering body to a place of comfort and put on the suit that isn’t you.

It will repeat. Over and over. And over again.

Until you have no words. And you find your head ‘neath the water, grasping for air. Confused as an flightless balloon. The thoughts race, panic ensures, head submerged under the water, bashing brain back and forth between the mind’s house, and you’ll see a light, that thought will pull itself up out the well with stolen ropes. You’ll place it in your hand, seashell found on shore, gazing quizzically at the shape, the colors. Here comes the pang, discomfort, the fear snaps off your neck. Seashell assailed, catapulted back into the sea.