Bottom of the Sea

I feel like I’ve been sinking

for so long

the bottom of the sea

started feeling familiar.

No sunlight here.

No noise.

Just pressure—

constant, crushing,

quiet enough

to make you forget

what breathing freely

used to feel like.

At first

I fought it.

Kicked toward the surface,

reached for light,

told myself

I wasn’t meant

to stay this deep.

But exhaustion

changes things.

Eventually

you stop fighting

what keeps pulling you under.

You let the dark

wrap around you

like something almost comforting.

And that’s the dangerous part—

how pain

can become home

if you live in it long enough.

How loneliness

starts sounding like peace.

How silence

starts feeling safer

than hope.

But somewhere

beneath all this weight,

beneath the wreckage

and the parts of me

that settled here years ago—

there’s still movement.

Still a pulse.

Still something inside me

remembering

there’s a surface

above all this.

And maybe

I haven’t drowned yet.

Maybe

I’m just lost

deep enough

to forget

I was built

to rise.