The Backstroke of Bitter Tears

I dove into the deep end, headfirst, quite a splash, Not of the pool, you see, but grief's enormous gash. It’s Olympic-sized, this sorrow, chlorinated blue, And I’m the sole competitor, with nothing else to do. The butterfly of heartache, a relentless, flailing thing, Propels me through the sadness, making my wet soul sing. Or rather, weep, a muffled, gurgling sound, As salty tears mix freely, where grief is always found. The freestyle of frustration, a frantic, splashing spree, I’m kicking at the memories, that constantly haunt me. I’m doing laps of “Why?” and “What if?” and “Oh dear,” While treading water, burdened by a monumental fear. The breaststroke of bereavement, a slow and heavy crawl, Each stroke a painful reminder, of how much I’ve let fall. I’m gasping for composure, with every sodden breath, And fighting off the undertow, of existential death. The synchronized despair, I’ve mastered all alone, A graceful, watery ballet, on a grief-encrusted stone. I’m twirling with the "should haves," and pirouetting with the "coulds," Performing for an audience, of silent, weeping woods. The diving board of darkness, I’ve launched from, time and time, A perfect ten for plummeting, in this emotional climb. I’m executing somersaults, of self-deprecating wit, While landing on my belly, in a pool of dripping grit. So, if you see me floating, with a faraway, wet stare, Don’t throw a life preserver, or attempt to lend a care. Just toss a rubber ducky, or a tiny, plastic boat, And let me drown in sorrow, with a humorous, soggy note.