The first time I went swimming, 
I was tossed into a lake by heavy hands
I felt the dirty water swarm my mouth
It pushed its way down my throat, thick and heavy and cold

Violently, my arms would flail,
 My feet would kick,
And I’d gasp for air when I broke the surface
With my stomach weighed down by salt and guilt

Like bricks tied to my feet, 
Making me sink,
Making my eyes sting. 
Glossy, blurry vision clouding my judgment. 

I’m bombarded by this water, 
The water that is 
“Holy,” He says,
 “You could be holy.”

I didn’t know that I wanted to be holy,
Or that being holy meant giving up some part of me
That I should drink the water,
They say that I’m thirsty

But I’m in doubt 
Because this doesn’t feel like drinking,
It feels like drowning
Does finding the angel within me mean dying?

Must I suffer to live a life of purity?
Would the man upstairs forgive me if instead, I tried breathing?
How do His other followers float peacefully?
When right now, I am sinking

If this water is so holy, why does it hate me?
Why does this body engulf me so angrily?
All these questions leave me
But they never reach the surface and they go unanswered

My skin will turn blue

And I’ll rot in the deep end 

With the harsh realization

That I’m not the first breath-taking baptism

I won’t be the last

Because despite the dark,

I can feel the cold bones 

of the others that couldn’t float