Drowning

I hear you. I listen to you. I think about what you are saying. I have something to say. I decide that I am able to reply with something beneficial. I take a breath. The words leave my mouth as I exhale. They are slippery and smooth as they flow out of my mouth and spring off the tip of my toungue. The words are enunciated, pronounced, and free of stutter. I'm looking at you, at your eyes, in your eyes, through your eyes.

nothing.

What is wrong? Was it something I said? Did you even hear me? Can you even hear me now?

nothing.

You speak.
as.
if.
I.
had.
never.
existed.

Your opinion has lost all credibility and respect.
It's nothing I can control, you didn't lose it from me, but my inner spirit.

When my mouth opens to speak, every word marks another swill of water sinking into my lungs.
Gasping for air, for my opinion to be heard, but more so for help, because every word brings me closer to drowning.

I know the words came out, just as clearly as before.

There you are. . .
and still nothing.

I'm drowning in myself, and no one hears me screaming for help.