I feel submerged, as though suspended in water.
Tiny bubbles falling away from me, pouring out of my mouth and nose.
There's no point trying to hold them in, but sometimes I do anyways.
I keep them in until it feels like I'm going to burst,
then do it even longer, willing my lungs to explode.
But my body finds a way to save itself at my expense
and they always leave, victims of zero-gravity,
like astronauts off their leashes.
So I pinch my eyes together and I leave them too,
because nothing could be worse than watching them get further and further away
never knowing where they'll go when they hit the surface
or what will become of me when they stop.
This Week's Theme Is:
"What We Lost in the Fire"