into water so deep,
she doesn't even feel the drowning.
All she knows is the absence of name
and the intoxicating dance of bubbles.
They flail in verticals
beading up like backwards raindrops.
They're taunting her
teasing up to where she cannot get to.
There is a weight, you see,
around her wrist.
It tugs her down with a wrenching grip,
to where seaweed binds her broken eyes.