Some wounds feel endless. Some tears feel too heavy. Writing this was my way of noticing that even when you sink repeatedly, there’s a way back to the surface.

He hurt me
in ways so small they looked harmless,
a word, a pause, a choice not made.
Yet I learned that a single tear,
when heavy enough,
can drown a person.

I drowned often.
Not loudly.
No splashing, no hands waving for help.
Just sinking
again, and again, and again
while he stood at the shore,
dry, unremorseful,
wondering why I kept disappearing.

Each time, I swallowed the ache
like water filling my lungs.
Each time, I told myself
this is survivable.
Each time, I died a little cleaner than before.

He never thought I’d resurface.
People who wound you repeatedly
start believing you are meant to stay under,
quiet proof of their innocence.

But rock bottom is not endless.
It is solid.
It is final.
And when your feet touch it,
there is no down left to go.

So I pushed.

I came back up
without asking permission from the waves.
I came back different
lungs stronger, eyes clearer,
heart no longer begging for air from him.

He looked surprised
as if survival was a betrayal,
as if I was supposed to remain
the version of me
that drowned for his comfort.

But I am not drowning anymore.
I have learned the weight of tears,
and I have learned my own buoyancy.

I hit the bottom
and discovered
the only direction left
was up.