I'm up to my neck
and sinking fast,
she telling me not to fight the inevitable,
my toes seeking the bottom that
won't exist until I drown,
quicksand filling my lungs
long before covering my eyes.
There is mercy in what she says
as if she feel sorry for me
after I got bushwhacked on her birthday,
like a mistress with a whip
telling me how pain can feel
less intense if I surrender to it.
Toes still seeking solid ground
I already know does not exist.
Give into it, surrender,
as the old rock song says,
but don't give your heart away,
while in the back of my brain I think,
"too late," as I sink deeper,
trying to abide by her wish
for me to ease
struggling, only I'm terrified
if I stop I'll cease to exist.
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