Sometimes. When it’s late. I wake up panicking. Breathing tears.
Scared of losing
you Because I think that in you I’ve found a side of me.
And I used to think that was a bad thing, but now I think it makes me stronger because it’s ok to need others.
I promise you it wasn’t this bad a month ago, but I month ago I hadn’t let you in this much.
(It’s hard to believe others love you when it’s a struggle to love yourself.)

How do I thank you for this all this, for giving me light?
I like to think I have an old soul. And when I feel
I feel 17 feet deep.
When you’re on the bottom of the pool
and your lips are pale and your eyelashes are soaking up chlorine sometimes you scrape you toes coming back up.
That’s what happened.
I stubbed my toe and burned my lungs on the way.
But every time I get back in line for the diving board I see things—
it’s high up, the diving board.
Even when I’m at the bottom sitting on the whitewashed concrete
looking up through the bubbles and blue water I see things.
You dressed in red but a red the color of life and not death,
a color difference not even the crayon companies picked up on.
Me, toes bleeding and lungs ignited and lips blue.
There is a fragile line between saving yourself and being saved.
You didn’t dive in to rescue me.
Instead you blew your whistle and threw me a lifesaver and yelled at me that you had the towels and the bandaids.
(You let me save myself)
and a Thank you is too shallow. All I have to offer is my soulpromise
That when you’re on the bottom 17 feet down
and your toes are bleeding, lungs ignited, and your lips are blue,
I’ll be the one dressed in red with the lifesaver and the towels.