when I stop being me

when I stop being me

and start being you,

I don't know where me ends. 

It's not like there's this beautiful enmeshment of souls. 

No. 

It's like a story:

My chest is an anchor. 

And the surface is just above. 

I have been down here too long. 

My skin separates from muscle, tendon, 

and bone. 

I don't remember what it's like

to feel whole. 

What did my body need? 

I don't remember. 

The dark becomes light and 

I don't recall if swimming up 

or down will save me.  

You know? It's like that. 

Another:

It's like needing to run,

knowing I need to run, 

and being pulled back by the grip 

of my mother

so that she could hold me tight

and never let me go. 

A comfort to no one

but herself. 

when I stop being me,

I start being you.