Storm glass on the windows, black coffee in my chest, Thunder in the distance trying to put me to the test. Tide marks on my sneakers from a life that loved to bite— But I lace them up and walk on water when I need to fight. I’ve been pulled under by names I won’t repeat, Learned how to breathe with an anchor at my feet— But even the deep has to loosen its grip at night. I am not the drowning type, Not the breathless, sinking light. You can watch the waves get high— I’ll make a shoreline out of sky. If I go under, I rise twice; I am not the drowning type. Rumors like rip currents, dragging at my knees, Promises like driftwood, heavy with old seas. I fold a paper lifeboat out of every “no” I’ve heard, Sail it past the breakers on the back of one true word. Taught my heart the difference between flood and flow, How to let the river through and still not let it own my throat— Even the moon can’t command me every night. I am not the drowning type, Not the breathless, sinking light. You can watch the waves get high— I’ll make a shoreline out of sky. If I go under, I rise twice; I am not the drowning type. Call me when the sirens sing, I’ll hum a harder tune, Stitch a sail from broken things and borrow wind from June. Salt in every scar I’ve got, but none of them decide— I’m the storm that learned to dance, not the one that had to hide. Let the water go, then breathe again. I am not the drowning type, Not the breathless, sinking light. Let the ocean test my spine— I’ll draw a harbor, line by line. If I go under, I rise twice; I am not the drowning type. Waves fade, feet dry— Tide out, head high.
