It feels like my head was pushed into a sink—
or maybe I am the one holding it there.
The water is cold, but if I deceive my mind,
it almost feels warm.
Bubbles slip from my nose as I measure my breath,
My eyes open
to see nothing but a system—
instructions on how to live.
And yet—
under the water,
breathing feels easier.
Not because it is safe,
but because I have learned
how to survive suffocation.
Still, the weight of a hand at my neck remains.
It presses with a truth
I already know
but choose not to listen to.
Beneath the surface, I see fishes—
large ones, wide-bodied, each distinct,
yet moving together as one current,
as if belonging were instinct,
as if there were no effort in it.
Among them drifts a small fish.
She gulps air, swelling herself,
stretching her body into other shapes,
practicing the posture of the others,
hoping resemblance will be enough
to let her stay.
And it brings the fish,
A quieter kind of loneliness—
of not being alone,
but trying to survive by becoming
what she are not.