Fathoms

The silence can be disturbing when my thoughts come at me too loud. 

I clamor, desperate for distraction.

Give me the sound of the engine. A rip chord symphony that cuts through the still water like a razor.

Petrified appendages beckon. Timeless yet forever lost in the fathoms of reflections. Rippling selfies mock my discontent. Eyes, distorted, unable to hold my gaze, stare through me, searching as hard for me as I am.

Minnows show the way to the hollows. Tadpoles, black and fat, skip through universes beyond my comprehension.  80 feet to the bottom and I've convinced myself I can see every stone. There is no other clarity, quite like this.

Plath showed me there is more than one good way to drown. Would my thoughts sound the same if I sink?

Natasha Head