When did laying on my bed feel like drowning in thin air on heavy water?
The heat transverses the length of my skin and converges with the water beneath me
A body: still and restless — moving, spinning around, in a place it’s paralyzed in
With muscles frozen, my heart beats migrate through my skin residing at the rendezvous for water and sun
A mind as hasty as my heart spinning around me, yelling at me, screaming at me
There are too many thoughts in my empty head
And I hear a voice talking to me — an unfamiliar one — a voice so deep so soft so calming so demanding. A voice that belongs to no one, a voice I can’t put a face on, a voice I can find refuge in. A voice that can hurt me, harm me, melt away my bones without touching my skin, drown me in a drought — drown me in dry dry dry air, suffocating me.
“Your heart is beating through the roof.”