When I was four, I thought monsters hid under my bed
because I felt a presence stain my nightmares so
I wove a dreamcatcher out of yarn, beads and bravery
and I hung it from my windowpane.

When I was six, I was scared to shed my training wheels
because I felt unsteady alone so 
I cocooned myself in layers of padding and
my fear turned into wings
like the caterpillars that learned they could be 
lionhearted butterflies in my kindergarten classroom. 

When I was eight, I thought rainstorms would kill me so 
I pretended that the pitter patter was a melody and
thunder was my chorus. I fell asleep to
her lullabies cemented in my mind, and I woke to rainbows. 

When I was ten, I fell in a race and I was afraid
of last place. I picked myself up and ran faster;
I didn't notice the blood trickling off my shredded skin.
My scrapes and scars were the medals I wore proudly 

I live on small, gasps of breath:
I take them beneath the surface.
I no longer struggle to swim underwater.
Each time I will see if I can go farther.

I am comforted by the water’s calm,
By the taste of honey apple lip balm,
By the fierce spray, unrelentless,
By the soft, rippling stillness. 

The smell of chlorine:
It’s relaxing, 
Addicting. 
I catch the scent often
And I stop in my tracks 
Because it’s overwhelming
To remember swimming.

It’s a wondrous feeling
To float and sense nothing,
Not a care in the world,
Just the white, tiled ceiling,
And yellow, shining lighting. 

When my eyes are red
From the chemical chlorine,
When my heart feels frosty 
From the crisp, cold water,
I know my soul is alive, on fire. 

Dive deep down.
The water is clear blue
But it’s sheltering enough
That no one will see you.