For every fluid ounce of being known
exists a lake of loneliness, spilling over.

These unholy waters are dark and deep.
Nothing grows in this bleak abandon.

And still the world wonders why some
of us choose to cannonball in. If only

it realized— there is safety underwater.
Being exposed, peered into, examined

and seen— makes a person opaque.
The same eyes that claim to know me

know nothing of me. I fool the world
by forcing the curvatures of my body

into an ill-fitting mold. To be known
in this life is far more often than not

a scam. You know nothing of me, only
my prettiest fiction in its Sunday best.

So of course I am choosing submersion.
I can’t stand being reduced to fallacy.

We’re drowning anyway. The only real
difference lies in the preference of where.

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