scoot

And that’s exactly why I love it.

There’s no one there.

No screaming under the surface.

No broken cries.

No weight, except the force of my hands breaking the water.

The only thing I can think about

is putting one arm after the other,

stealing a breath when I can.

It’s a kind of ceremony –

Of drowning.

Of being too deep in to see the bottom

and doing everything you can to stay afloat.

To not slip into the abyss.

It’s everything I do outside of the water.

But here, I choose it.

Here, I do it because I want to.

Because I enjoy it.

The sun filters down

and the world blurs.

Mirages of colours and seconds drift past.

I feel untethered –

and for once, there’s a reason I can point to.

When summer ends,

and stepping into icy water brings more attention

and scolding than relief,

I turn to the sky.

“Oh, I love rainy days,” I say,

with a smile that bites the sentence short —

or the thought —

before it can fight its way out.

They don’t get out of bed when it rains.

They don’t want to be around me

when I walk for hours beneath it.

They don’t smother me

when I step back inside.

For once, the only insult thrown my way

is that I’m soaked.

For once, it’s something I can fix.

Something external

for them to frown at.

To despise.

That’s why I don’t bring a rain jacket

when the rain comes again.

That's why I throw the door open,

tilt my face to the sky,

and smile at the rain,

at the only friend I had,

who’d seen what that frown destroys.

The same friend who waits outside the house,

drowning out the noise inside it.

The one who empties the street of others

when I’m too tired to face another stare.

The one who’s there

on every family trip to the beach –

offering open arms and whispered calm,

a place to go

far from the biting words

left sunbathing on the sand.

A friend that’s warm and cold,

soft and violent,

present and absent,

still and raging,

demanding and gentle,

dangerous and unforgiving –

all-encompassing,

dark,

overpowering,

familiar.

Everything I’ve ever been forced to survive

you’re needed. Useful.

And as a kid,

that was the only thing

I could be.

Better the confidant than the corpse.

Better anything

than the silence

that follows

the one who names it.

Then one day,

you wake up an adult

and look out the backyard window.

The yard is empty.

Barren.

Full of rot.

Full of buried things.

Bodies

Of people you used to be.

But the only thing you see –

the only thing you were taught

Allowed to remember –

is that you're the one

who put them there.

So when they ask for your help again,

you don’t question it.

You already know how.

I’m the one who grows skeletons.

Not flowers.

This is what I’m good for.

What I chose.

Right?

And they need me.

I left the house I grew up in.

I couldn’t leave it behind.

I built myself a new one.

I called it home.

Ran to it that Halloween night.

Searched for safety

in a house full of ghosts.

It makes sense, then.

When he begged,

I stayed.

Spent months tracing the splintered glass.

Swallowing the pit in my stomach.

Waiting for the moment

I’d finally leave.

But then he cried.

Needed me.

So I did

what I always do.

I couldn’t bury the evidence.

So I closed my eyes.

Convinced myself

to take the blame.

That I’d given him

no other choice.

I let his words feed the fire

of the guilt

grown in an empty house

until it rained down so thick

I had no choice

But to keep them closed.

I didn’t open my eyes again

until he left.

Years later,

I can point to the glass.

Say – see, this is why I was scared.

This proves it wasn’t okay.

I can convince myself

it was the scariest thing

I’d ever been through.

But honestly?

It felt like home.

Now I’m looking

at the evidence.

After all, someone has to pick up the shovel.

Dig deep.

Make some room

my blood on their hands,

I keep letting them push

the knife into mine.

If I don’t blame them

I’ll just keep bleeding

apologies

for “making a mess”.

They’ve already put the knife in my hands.

I might as well