Let Me Drown
fragment · aug 2023
Learning hurts.
It pulls me under.
Sweet at first, like citrus on the tongue,
then the peel turns bitter
and I have to chew anyway.
It pulls me under.
Sweet at first, like citrus on the tongue,
then the peel turns bitter
and I have to chew anyway.
— the office —
In his office,
the air is thin and holds its breath.
I sit across from him,
aware of the animal I am.
My hands shake against my knees.
My stomach growls, low and tectonic,
a sound that doesn't belong here.
The other students are statues.
Effortless. Hollow.
I am plumbing and pressure and pain.
He speaks in clean sentences.
No strain.
His words lift me,
light as a hand at the wrist,
and for a moment,
I think I belong.
Then his look sharpens.
“Do you see it?” he asks.
My eyes burn. My grip slips.
The expectation settles on me like stone,
the cord tightens,
and I am pulled back into air I do not want.
the air is thin and holds its breath.
I sit across from him,
aware of the animal I am.
My hands shake against my knees.
My stomach growls, low and tectonic,
a sound that doesn't belong here.
The other students are statues.
Effortless. Hollow.
I am plumbing and pressure and pain.
He speaks in clean sentences.
No strain.
His words lift me,
light as a hand at the wrist,
and for a moment,
I think I belong.
Then his look sharpens.
“Do you see it?” he asks.
My eyes burn. My grip slips.
The expectation settles on me like stone,
the cord tightens,
and I am pulled back into air I do not want.
— the sea wants me too —
I want depth.
The sea wants me too,
but the shore keeps throwing me back.
I wake on the sand, breath gone,
cold toes curled in on themselves.
The sea wants me too,
but the shore keeps throwing me back.
I wake on the sand, breath gone,
cold toes curled in on themselves.
— x becomes y —
My mouth tastes like coffee that's been reheated twice.
My scalp itches where I scratched too long.
The room is quiet except for the clock
and the other me.
If x becomes y, she says,
then this step works.
No, I answer,
you skipped something. You always skip something.
She sighs.
We try again.
x becomes y.
y almost holds.
Almost is where I live.
My scalp itches where I scratched too long.
The room is quiet except for the clock
and the other me.
If x becomes y, she says,
then this step works.
No, I answer,
you skipped something. You always skip something.
She sighs.
We try again.
x becomes y.
y almost holds.
Almost is where I live.
— outside, nothing moves —
Outside, nothing moves.
Inside, I keep working,
half-drowned,
still reaching for the deep.
Again, the ache of learning pulls me under.
I hold out my leaves, paper bent and soft with use,
ink crossed out, rewritten, bled through.
Ugly work. Honest work. My work.
Proofs that wander before they arrive.
Inside, I keep working,
half-drowned,
still reaching for the deep.
Again, the ache of learning pulls me under.
I hold out my leaves, paper bent and soft with use,
ink crossed out, rewritten, bled through.
Ugly work. Honest work. My work.
Proofs that wander before they arrive.
— the blue glow of midnight —
Then, the sun sets.
The world goes quiet.
The whiteboard becomes a blank country.
Elvis sings through cheap speakers,
that burning rhythm that makes me reckless.
The marker squeaks,
a frantic, joyous war,
and suddenly x becomes y without a fight.
In the blue glow of midnight
I am a titan.
On the podium.
Gold in my hands.
The other me finally shuts up.
My mouth is stale with coffee breath.
Xylitol gum snaps, pretending alertness.
Caffeine burns my tongue.
Half-melted chocolate on the desk,
eaten for comfort, not hunger.
My belly presses against the waistband
when I lean forward.
I notice.
I hate that I notice.
The world goes quiet.
The whiteboard becomes a blank country.
Elvis sings through cheap speakers,
that burning rhythm that makes me reckless.
The marker squeaks,
a frantic, joyous war,
and suddenly x becomes y without a fight.
In the blue glow of midnight
I am a titan.
On the podium.
Gold in my hands.
The other me finally shuts up.
My mouth is stale with coffee breath.
Xylitol gum snaps, pretending alertness.
Caffeine burns my tongue.
Half-melted chocolate on the desk,
eaten for comfort, not hunger.
My belly presses against the waistband
when I lean forward.
I notice.
I hate that I notice.
— the morning after —
Then comes the morning.
The fluorescent glare.
The exam waits like a white shroud.
I look at him,
and his scrutiny is a physical heat.
Then the internal rot:
the Crohn's, the sudden fire,
the frantic need to be anywhere but in this chair.
I malfunction.
The logic leaks out of me.
I trade brilliance for a moment's relief,
and the paper comes back,
marked with a "C."
The mark of the average.
The brand of the "almost."
I put on the mask,
the fake determination,
the lie that says
“I'll do better next time.”
I say it to his face,
but I know the truth:
I only belong on the podium
when the moon is the only judge.
The fluorescent glare.
The exam waits like a white shroud.
I look at him,
and his scrutiny is a physical heat.
Then the internal rot:
the Crohn's, the sudden fire,
the frantic need to be anywhere but in this chair.
I malfunction.
The logic leaks out of me.
I trade brilliance for a moment's relief,
and the paper comes back,
marked with a "C."
The mark of the average.
The brand of the "almost."
I put on the mask,
the fake determination,
the lie that says
“I'll do better next time.”
I say it to his face,
but I know the truth:
I only belong on the podium
when the moon is the only judge.
— the weight of expectation —
I love this.
I hate everything that slows me down.
Expectation settles on me like stone.
You must.
You should.
You ought.
Not said cruelly.
Said as fact.
The cord tightens around my chest
and I am pulled back into air I do not want.
I hate everything that slows me down.
Expectation settles on me like stone.
You must.
You should.
You ought.
Not said cruelly.
Said as fact.
The cord tightens around my chest
and I am pulled back into air I do not want.
— night returns —
Night returns.
Cold toes on the floor.
Old coffee. Paper. Stillness.
She appears.
If x becomes y, she says,
then it works.
You're rushing, I tell her.
Trying to be clever.
We argue quietly.
x becomes y.
y almost holds.
Almost is where I live.
I love the depth.
I hate the clocks, the bodies, the money,
the small humiliations crowding the work.
I hate how being human interrupts thinking.
Again, the ache pulls me down.
I sit in the bright shadow of what he is,
knowing the light is borrowed.
And my own doubt bites hardest.
Not the work. Never the work.
But the voice that says I am
too slow, too heavy, too late.
Cold toes on the floor.
Old coffee. Paper. Stillness.
She appears.
If x becomes y, she says,
then it works.
You're rushing, I tell her.
Trying to be clever.
We argue quietly.
x becomes y.
y almost holds.
Almost is where I live.
I love the depth.
I hate the clocks, the bodies, the money,
the small humiliations crowding the work.
I hate how being human interrupts thinking.
Again, the ache pulls me down.
I sit in the bright shadow of what he is,
knowing the light is borrowed.
And my own doubt bites hardest.
Not the work. Never the work.
But the voice that says I am
too slow, too heavy, too late.
— let me drown —
If I sink again, let it be far.
Past grades and gazes and measured worth.
Past rescue.
Let the knowledge take me whole.
Strip away the rest.
Leave only the wanting.
Past grades and gazes and measured worth.
Past rescue.
Let the knowledge take me whole.
Strip away the rest.
Leave only the wanting.
☕
marginalia
“The wanting is the part that never drowns. Everything else is just the tide.”
For the ones who have sat in fluorescent offices with shaking hands. For the midnight victories that no one sees. For the bodies that interrupt the thinking. For the almost.
this is the one that took the longest to share. not because the words were hard, but because admitting the weight of expectation, and still choosing the depth is the hardest thing I've done. I wrote this in sophomore year, on nights when the whiteboard was the only thing that made sense. It's still the most honest thing I've ever written.
Eman, peer-reviewed