I’d made a habit of telling you what hurt. I always had a new problem for you that needed solving. A fresh catastrophe from which I needed rescuing. I think it gave you something to spend your time on. I think it gave you some use.
But then I found a thing I needed more than water. Afraid to die of thirst, I’d take too much and lose my air. I’d come back for you to drain me dry and squeeze me out and press me flat. Still, I’d plunge back in to soak it up, and you’d be there on the shore to watch it end.
I could’ve done with a little faith in your encouragement. Maybe my drowning made you feel justified in never bothering to swim. But in drifting this way, I’ve lost sight of the shore and I’m filled to the brim and I’ve learned how to float.
So now that I don’t need saving, tell me, what will you do with your day?