I am a sinking ship.
Waves crash over me
and an ocean drags me down.
Delicate ankles swatched in nylons
Point towards my waiting bed.
They do not kick.
Swift wrists and long fingers float above,
trailing ten streams of bubbles
That tell of my mortality.
Soft curls unwind in water
and drift above,
Medusa's snakes battling for air.
It is getting dark now,
and my lungs pulsate,
Grasping for what they cannot have.
I swallow water, a salty taste I have never liked.
My toes touch soft sand
and nestle in.
They do not kick.
They do not kick.