Hothouse

By Ty Jones

Down 

down 

down in the sea, in her cold, 

sharp arms, 

quiet, 

finally unable to hear the ringing in my 

ears, 

Dark, 

no more blinding light in my face, 

no more need for the epileptic settings on my devices, 

Even pressure against the 

parts of me escaping, 

pushing my soul back to 

where it’s supposed to be, 

like fixing a slipped 

disk. 

Falling away to my sweet silence no more playing the game of when to speak and when to be silent and what to say and what not to say and why would you say that that was so

rude and hurry up and say something, 

be polite. 

Just peace. 

The fish next to me don’t drown 

(I am not sure yet if I have gills but that’s a risk I’m willing to take) 

I can see the parts of me I hate, 

and the parts of me I hurt, 

and the parts of me I hate that hurt, 

and I am at 

peace. 

No one to twist the knife. 

Me and myself and they and us and we and you are all gone. 

I am at peace. 

I am cold inside and out – for once not half burning-half stone – all together, all at once.

If I am in the sea the salt water will heal my wounds double time, 

she fixes me up. 

I don’t have to hate the drowning, the sea doesn’t hate me. 

The sea just is. 

I am there even if me and myself try to hide it at the end of the day I am there and I just am and that is okay. 

I don’t have to hate the drowning within myself and I don’t have to have or show a scar to have hurt.