Suicide

I found a short poem I had written last summer and decided to turn it into a piece. Here it is…

I never feel like running away, escaping my “world” for a day. Except when there is water. I think it’s something about the fear and unknown that lies underneath that black satin water-top that puts me somewhere on the edge of comfort and fright.

My brother-in-law is from a small town in southern Italy with rolling hilltops that blend right in with the coast. Outside his beach house balcony I look to the right and see gently sloping mountains covered with patches of bushy round trees, chunks of brown land where it is too dry. To the left is the vastness of sea, so clear it blends in with the sky above, a sheet of water and space outlined by the faintest horizon. It feels as though if I jump into that water, I’ll be carried into space, an outer world that I do not know.

The path to the beach is straight down, a sweltering hot road that curves steeply to the water’s rim. The sound of waves crashing into the seafloor’s edge divides coast from water. I feel the weight of gravity pulling me down, the pressure on every joint and bend in my body. I cannot sense the weightlessness I am about to feel.

Mediterranean winds wind through the multicolored pebbles. My toes curl up into the soles of my feet trying to avoid the scorching rocks. I wait until I’m so hot the sweat beads return the moment I wipe my forehead with the towel. My body feels like a rash--red and irritated, itchy with frustration. It only takes minutes before I head to the water, the immense body of weightlessness calling me in.

I go all the way under. The water feels like satin sheets billowing down around me from all directions, my hair swelling out like a heavenly seaweed patch. The sea, not dark, welcomes me into its underworld. For a moment I am obsessed with escaping, leaving behind everything I know and understand, everything past the edge where this water portal meets land. I swim along the top of the water, eagerly scanning the seafloor of its coral and rock and inhabitants. There is no direction but out. Every now and then I feel a need to turn back, a second of fear that engulfs me. Then leaves quicker than it came, and I keep going.

I am independent out here, my chest gliding along the glossy waters, my freckled back exposed to the sun, heating every droplet as they descend down my crevices and curves. My lanky arms and legs stretch outward, limp though sturdy as they sink below, fighting nothing but the buoyancy of water. For a moment, every point of pressure in my body is released, a euphoria of sorts enters my mind. I feel high and exhausted at the same time.

I want to keep going, let it all go,
drifting deeper,
lighter,
like falling driftwood too heavy for its drifter or a sinking ship too treacherous for its captain. To feel the sanded seafloor hug my cheek, imprinting my outline forever, completely alone and sheltered by the sea. To feel like dying.