The thing that she had not realized is that she had an amazing sense of self worth that only surfaced when she was drowning, never apparent in her usual submerged state of happenstance where we find her comatose, simply listening, and seeing what floats by her eyes. If it is intriguing, she might let a bubble escape from her parched lips. If she is interacted with, she takes in all the air she can and gracefully glides away with a precision and speed that seems unreal for her usually clumsy person. When those who call upon her show her affection, she may nestle to their sides, but always look away, because she knows it is wrong. Then she swims away with only a backward glance to leave you in awe of her and to keep the pain of her departure fresh in your mind, the sad look in her eyes. Many say that she is a cruel fish, a beautiful, shiny, silver, alluring fish, with the golden eyes and pearl teeth, but she has a bruised heart, mushy in some places and just right in others. Her insides are slowly decaying, becoming that chump which feeds the larger fish and makes her stink and weighs her down. The beautiful fish floats and expects others to come to her, yet is offended when they do not and frightened when they do. She feels horrible but people see no wrong in her ways, only those who know her "potential". She is a lost fish, a little fish sleeping by big fish' side, so that she may receive its comfort and they may receive some semblance of distant company, a glance in their direction, maybe catching her staring at them with big, wondrous, golden eyes. Maybe she dances in their shadow, reveling in the darkness of their presence, yet a single tear floats around her as she misses the sun. All she has to do is swim away, just go that much faster than the big fish, just move upwards, towards some glorious, orgastic sunshine which may bless her golden eyes and make her scales shine again. Perhaps she is just fine, swimming comfortably in-between all sorts of sizes of fish, no actual harm in her actions, all the questions just thoughts in her crowded fish head, which may be beautiful enough to grace a dinner plate, garnished with frilly, fresh things, but only tasty to the few who have the audacity to pluck her golden eyes from her fragile silver head and rip her beauty from her jagged skeleton. Perhaps she will swim on, lay many unproductful eggs, never ceasing to swim until the current stops pushing her and she slowly floats to the bottom, forgetting how to breath with such a relaxing, deep exhale that leaves her tired and without will at the bottom. Perhaps she will feel relief, perhaps she will feel sad, perhaps she will not feel at all, just acknowledging that she has finally reached the bottom. This does not mean that she has failed, or that she swam to the surface for naught. Now those who had struggled on the bottom can feed off of her beauty and become something new, young, fresh, as she slowly becomes a fleeting memory, the soggy scraps of skin and scales floating in the dark, barely perceptible current that must be the effect of those swimming above her, not knowing what lies beneath, watching as they swim slower and slower, until they, too, join her in the comatose watch that had possessed her regrettably in her younger years. Living or dead, sleeping or awake, she is a fish, a beautiful fish with the squishy insides and beautiful scales.