Five years old at the local kiddie pool,
head under the water,
holding my breath until I can’t take it,
bursting into the air and gasping for breath.
My eyes stay wide open,
chlorine burning my retinas.
I blink and become a mermaid,
swishing my blue tail
alongside my sister’s pink one.

Six years old at the resort,
laying on a floating bed
as my aunt swims along beside me.
I swish my hands
through the gentle waves
and listen attentively
to all the scary stories she knows.
I learn about killers
and ghosts and monsters.

Seven years old at the river,
sludging through the muck
in an attempt to cool down.
My best friend sneaks behind me
as I float on my back.
She grabs my hair and yanks,
then begins dragging me away.
I splutter and desperately try
to keep my head above water.

Eight years old at the gym’s pool,
and my best friend,
who had been ignoring me for weeks,
is ranting about the girl she’d ditched me for.
I nod along eagerly and paddle beside her
as she complains that the other girl
is now annoying her.
I slip on the floor on our way to the lockers
but she doesn’t notice.

Nine years old at my cousin’s pool,
launched into the air by my father’s strong arms,
breaking the surface with a splash.
My siblings squabble to go next
but I hang back
kicking my legs and catching my breath.
The screams are so loud
I sink beneath the surface of the water
and pretend I’m not there at all.

Ten years old at a lake up north,
An August so chilly no one dared to swim all week.
The very last day, my cousin and I
walked down to the beach
and jumped in, fully clothed.
We screeched and shivered
then threw our clothes to the shore,
and tiptoed through the seaweed
to watch the sunset naked.

Eleven years old at my cousin’s cabin,
and death has taken a life
through fire and smoke.
I go outside and sit in the hammock,
watching as the waves lap at the sand
and wonder why I feel so empty.
I choke on tears
and ignore the rain.

Twelve years old at my uncle’s pool again,
and ready to dive in.
I make laps around the perimeter
until my arms are sore.
My sisters ask me to play
and my little cousins
beg me to twirl them around,
but instead
I get out of the water.

Thirteen years old at the lake again,
and I’m trying not to cry
as I wiggle my toes under the sand.
The disapproving, disgusted voice
of someone I care about
rings in my head.
I know the people who matter
won’t care
that I’m not straight.

Fourteen years old at a hotel pool,
being begged to join in on the fun.
Instead I sit with at a distance
and ignore the sounds of laughter
amongst the splashing.
My head is pounding
and I’m exhausted.
So scared of missing out
but more scared of their judgment.

Fifteen years old at family vacation,
and I sleep in everyday until 8 pm.
My family says they miss me.
I barely speak to anyone
and only go to the lake once, alone,
on the last night.
As the sky turns pink,
I promise myself that next year
will be different.

Sixteen years old at a beach in Puerto Rico,
I spread out a towel on the sand,
and smother my face in sunscreen.
I jump as the waves come in
and let them push and pull me
wherever they please.
That night, as I fall asleep,
I still feel the waves
carrying me away.