Suffocation.

How do I make you feel how I feel?

It’s like someone pushing my head under water…

that heavy hum in my ears,

everything turning into muffled nothing.

I open my mouth to scream

but no sound comes up,

just bubbles breaking against my lips

as water steals the space meant for air.

My lungs desperately reach for air

and get filled with water instead,

that slow, aching suffocation we call depression.

They say depression can’t hit a moving target,

but mine never lets me move.

It keeps me pinned beneath the surface.

Did I ever tell you I never learnt to swim?

Existing hurts now,

every small spark of dopamine

is just a gasp of air swallowed wrong,

burning, sharp,

another mouthful of water pretending to be relief.

My eyes sting

but nothing falls

no tears,

just the pressure of them,

sealed behind a cage I never built.

When did I lose the ability to cry?

Every tear I can’t shed

just drifts downward inside me,

floating in my lungs,

learning how to drown quietly

the way I do.