I am a little wooden boat
adrift on an endless gray sea.
A single hole near my feet
lets the water creep in—
slow, steady, silent.
It's not much at first.
Just a trickle.
But I know how this ends.
I scoop the water out
with trembling hands,
tossing it back into the dark
where the shadows churn beneath.
I can't see them—
but I know they're there.
Waiting.
Patient.
Hungry.
Each handful I throw
returns quicker, heavier.
My arms burn.
My chest tightens.
I am so, so tired.
Sometimes, someone finds me.
They row alongside in bright boats,
wood polished, eyes full of light.
They ask if I'm okay.
And I smile—
tight-lipped and practiced.
"I'm fine," I say,
though the water climbs my legs
and the cold bites my skin.
Some stay a little longer,
drop words like lifebuoys:
"You're strong,"
"This will pass,"
"I'm here."
But they drift away.
Always.
Their sails catch a wind I can't feel.
They think I'm floating.
They don't see the storm below.
Alone again,
I return to my task—
scooping, tossing,
scooping, sinking.
My arms are lead.
My heart is hollow.
My body still.
It feels like I'm nailed to the seat.
The water reaches my chest.
The boat groans beneath me.
And from below, the shadows rise—
long, dark tendrils
curling around the hull,
testing.
Teasing.
Tugging.
They don't rush.
They know I'm almost ready.
Then—
a rope falls.
A voice breaks through the fog.
Someone sees me.
Really sees me.
They offer their hand.
Their strength.
But I can't lift my arm.
I can't answer.
There's nothing left.
Only water
filling lungs that once knew breath.
And as I sink,
there is no panic.
No fight.
Only silence.
No weight.
No pretending.
No more scooping.
Just stillness.
And for the first time—
I feel free.