Beneath Water and Skin

I drive us into the lake while you’re asleep. Your window’s open. You wake up when water reaches your calves and swim out. I remain submerged. A tender disappearance.

Don’t come back for me. Continue to sing of how hearts break and still beat in hopes of finding people to brighten them. I too had hope. For a few hours. A few months.

You gave me a blanket, and I got too cozy. I wrote words I hadn’t before. I spoke of the nature of your lips. The arch of your spine. How I’d change myself for me because of you.

You’re angry that I decided our fate without prayers or approval. But I knew you’d find your way back into your mother’s and sister’s arms on Sunday morning. Open Bibles and gratitude during turmoil.

Me. I’m stuck like always. Self-loathing fills my lungs and burns. An unholy baptism. I think of all the days that have passed and the days that won’t. How my last touch is water, not your skin.

Don’t be sorry. It wasn’t up to you. Only God can speak to what happened in private. I was a golden-haired child learning piano, my hands misplaced by a man deemed reputable.

You carry a meaning felt with or without your presence. The only untainted person in a room of believers. Maybe I pulled you under to prove you’d become me.