Dipped down, deep. Out to sea, lost in a dark tide. The waves rip into the flat black ocean. The coast spreads itself, out of reach. A shadow ahead, engulfed.
But I have drowned before.
Always at the hands of men who are the first to shove me down.
Two neat palms to hold keep me pinned.
I have to wonder... am I starting to enjoy the process? The pressure of the tide taking me out, holding me down, a shoulder blade against my throat.
It's hard to tell.
It's a conditional statement.
A bad habit.
...an accepted sign of normality.
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