I Pour it Out

I pour it out. 

I lay down in it, I curl up in it, I fall asleep in it, I wake up in it. I let myself get soaked. I feel myself filling back up and I pour it out again. My fingers and toes and hands and heart shrivel up, Leached of everything that made them. Loved ones pour theirs out in my puddle too and take turns laying next to me in it for a while. They all eventually get up. I let strangers look at it, put their hands in it. They applaud me and it splatters their faces and the walls. I curl up in it, I fall asleep in it, I wake up in it. 

I maybe try to drown in it. I feel myself start to dry up, sit up, and the aching fullness weighs me down again, like that dream where you can't move your feet or arms or head. I pour out some more. I lay down in it.

I curl up in it. I lay there soaked for days and weeks. I wake up and fall back asleep in it for weeks and months. I fill up over and over again like someone who can't stop digging deeper into saturated earth, and then I bail myself out again. But suddenly I flip over. Face down I breathe it in through my gills. I peer into my hole dug through the earth And sink to the bottom of my lake. I use my fins to propel myself

And I swim.