This room is filling quickly. I am not Atlas, but Poseidon, who never learned to swim.
I cannot swim — it’s pathetic — the ocean terrified me as a child.
A fear of the unknown is something I swallowed, learning how to be masculine.
To be a pillar holding nothing, a performance of strength.
To be an open book. Atlas, shallow-chested, drained.
I left my window open because I heard, somewhere,
That drowning is peaceful, simple.
I am not Atlas, I am not Poseidon. This room is filling quickly. I am a very small boy.