Drowning Without Water

There’s no water but I’m drowning.

My lungs are burning.

I can feel the hands tighten around my throat.

This is it — this is how it ends.

I didn’t even leave a note.

I count the fingerprints on my skin,

Connect the dots —

They lead back to him.

Please, no.

He loves me so.

From the telephone wire above the streetlight, a crow watches the window where the screams are silent. It knows this kind of stillness — the kind that follows fear. Its wings twitch, restless, as if aching to break through the glass.

He loves me so much it hurts.

He just wants everything to perfection.

He turns the lights off —

He blinds my perception.

Don’t say a word. Don’t make a sound.

Quiet as a mouse.

Don’t wake the hound.

I’m standing at the gates of hell,

Begging to be forgiven for my sin.

Please, don’t let me in.

Don’t let this be how my story ends.

The crow calls once — sharp, echoing — a cry that splits the dark. In the sound is both warning and prayer. It remembers the women who came before, wings smudged with smoke and sorrow. It remembers how they rose.

Is it over yet?

Please don’t make me see.

Don’t let this be my reality.

Black and blue and shades of gray,

My eyes roll back —

I’m in outer space.

Another crow lands beside the first. Together, they tilt their heads, black eyes reflecting the faintest trace of dawn. There is something sacred about their watching — as if by holding the memory, they lighten her burden.

This fantasy is my protection,

Wrapped in a cloak, hiding from connection.

Aggression disguised as affection.

Hands tighten at my throat.

Drowning without water, but I’m trying to float.

Shaking from the chill —

He goes in for the kill.

Everything has changed.

My whole life’s rearranged.

These memories haunt me —

They keep me company.

Never alone,

This is how I atone.

In the aftermath, feathers drift through her dreams — black, soft, eternal. The crows do not speak, but their silence is permission: to breathe, to rage, to rise. They know what it means to survive the storm and still learn to fly.

Somewhere between night and morning, one crow takes flight. It circles once, then disappears into the sun — leaving only the whisper of wings and a single message echoing through her bones:

Light the dark. Face the sun. Be the hope.