I did not jump into this pool.
You pushed me.

For months, I stood on the edge,
sometimes brave enough to dip
a toe in.
But I always drew back,
afraid of the cold
and the shock I would feel
when the water would engulf me
like an eager crowd swallowing
an injured woman on the street.

You pushed me in anyway,
though I begged you not to.
I held onto your hand far too tight,
as if you were the only thing
saving me
from falling off a cliff.
Then
I realized that you were the one
who had thrown me over in the first place.
I wish I could say
I was the one to let go.

When I hit the water, I knew
I would not survive.
The emptiness you left in my chest
was flooded by the stinging water,
I thought I knew
how to swim;
I couldn’t have been more wrong.

I let the water fill me,
sure that the ice it left in its wake
would never melt.
I prepared to let it consume me,
crossed my arms over my chest
to rest, here, in this biting pool.

That motion,
stretching fingertips to meet shoulders,
stirred a faint warmth,
and as I felt my movement
begin to soften the frost inside,
I knew I would come to love the cold.