The first time you touched my wrist
I said my blood followed a tide schedule,
at 3:17 every afternoon
it rushed so fast I could hear seashells in my veins.

I’d been swimming laps in the neighbor’s pool
since before I had teeth,
but only at night,
and only in my communion dress.
The chlorine was holy enough,
I didn’t need the priest.

My grandmother left a key
to a door in the middle of the river,
you had to hold your breath to use it,
behind it, a room lined with childhood voices and vices,
each one still asking if you’d come.

Once, I told you the scar on my knee
wasn’t from falling off my bike,
it was a map.
If you traced it right,
you’d end up back in the year we never met.

You laughed at the river key.
You swore the tide thing was real.
You said I had more interesting scars,
and I said all liars do,
which wasn’t a lie exactly,
just a matter of which wound got promoted.

You’ll never know which story was the anchor
and which was the chain,
but the boat is long gone,
the water keeps my name,
and the waves outrank us both.

You didn’t even try to swim.
You watched.
You waited.
You let me drown just to see if I would.