The First Time

I held death
in salt water inside lung,
hopeful to be pulled
on raft and have air beat
back into my chest.

The second time I pushed
under the water. I let go,

knowing full well there was
no point in waiting for a kind hand.

Did it make you mad
that I preferred the consumption
of the sea to your dripping lips?

I will not give you
the satisfaction to mourn
my death or save my life.

Instead I continue
carrying crosses.
I earned them.
They alone will
keep me afloat.

Pull me to surface.

Surviving storms is
not an easy feat,
but they leave such
peace in their wake.