We were all born in this lake,

Wandering out, crawling and

Covered in amniotic fluid

And gasping for air.

And then pulled up into parents’ arms.

They fling us back in order to

“Learn how to swim.”

And if we survive,

And drip back out,

We’re one year older.

Lather, rinse, repeat

And we’re teenagers slathered

In hormones and atomic acne

Bombs.

We have our first kiss on a boat

Or under the dock,

And later we ask why we wanted it,

As we step back on to dry land,

Smelling like alcohol and cigarettes

At 21

With an addiction to escaping.

But when we stop growing,

We watch the lake pull our friends and family

Back in.

Once their eyebrows are under,

We’re allowed to say goodbye.

And only when we dunk our heads deeper than ever before,

Are we allowed to say hello again.