Still Under

drowning gets easier the more You practice 
 
there’s an incredible high the lower You go
until You dash against the rocks
and lose what little wind You’ve got left
 
there are life preservers
sure
little pellets You can swallow
to moderate Your descent
keep You floating when Your arms get tired
 
but treading water only gets You so far
and attracts old memories
with teeth like sawblades
 
they gnaw and they gnash
blood pouring from the thrashing
a feeding frenzy of things best kept hidden
 
they leave You eyeing that shotgun in the corner
a quick click and they’ll scatter
splatter across the wall behind Your head
a mosaic of should-haves and could-haves and would-haves
 
but the what-ifs remain
whispering in Your ear
the promise of a better tomorrow
or hour
or minute
 
and it’s enough to make You breach
gasping for air
one more time

 About the Writer

F.T. Roman is an adjunct English professor whose previous work has appeared in the flash fiction guerilla press "gather kindling".