I sink underneath the water but I don’t drown. I breathe it in like it might give me life, ignoring the idea it might snuff me out instead. The water sloughs off my skin like rivers cascading down my limbs. My blood pushes through my veins like lightning across the sky, and I sink down. Down, down, and down.
But still I don’t drown.
I don’t drown in the champagne, in my tears, in the bathwater. I still can’t breathe but the only place I ever truly drown is inside.
But I sink.
I sink into the water and stare at the steam gently floating across the surface. I sink down and wait for it to thaw the ice in my heart. I sink into that icy cavern and hide myself inside. Down, where no one can reach me, down where I feel nothing.
I wrap that frozen shell around myself like a robe. And I sink. Down and down and down.