I think about death more often than sometimes and when I say death I don’t mean dying but lying so still my whole body’s at ease; muscles relaxed I can’t feel my knees — my knees don’t exist anymore because I don’t exist anymore.
Like water,
I’m floating.
My heart is the sun on a cloudless day, uninterrupted
but my mind is water vapor; clouded by thoughts where death is a frenemy .
I lie still on the carpet of my bedroom — my body weighs heavily, sinking into the ground.
Like water,
I’m drowning.
Drowning,
when I once used to float.
God, please remind me how to swim because the truth is…
I think about death more often than sometimes but I do not want to die — I say I’m okay now when asked how I am because saying good back then was a lie.
I just want everything to stop for a moment so finally I can breathe. I want to lie awake in my bed; muscles so relaxed I can’t feel knees. I want my ears to fall silent, let my wild thoughts run free. I want them to run faster than these thoughts that are running after me.
I want them to die, not I — but the truth is I’m the one thinking these things, so who outlives the other?
God, I’m dying every moment I lie awake and when I say dying I don’t mean death but the parts of me that I have left are slipping away; they’re out of reach.
Like dancing with two left feet,
I tumble.
Like water,
I experience drought.
Now my heart is the sun on days where you can’t see it.
And as I lie here, pretending my carpet is grass and that my body is soil, I stare up at the ceiling that I make believe it’s the sky.
I lie there,
waiting for the moment when it rains.
Praying that it rains — God, you have to let it rain.
Because until then, I’m here
stuck in the clouds.
Waiting for the sun to shine once again.
Like water,
floating.
B.K Laurel 