I try to survive, clinging to that board in the ocean, always sighting land.
Always out of my reach, I'm sinking fast.
You have been called ballast. Possibly you call yourself that. Please, don't.
I cannot jettison you without becoming an empty husk (even one that floats). You're lodged deep within me, a wonderfully terminal disease, the tumour that gave light to my eyes.
If the price I have to pay is sinking, so be it.
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