I refuse to surface.
I will turn my limbs into fins,
layer my skin with scales.
I will slit my throat, such delicate gills.
Down here, they are mutable, shifting, first whale
then urchin, all spine and stomach.
Up there, air and light fossilize,
a trilobite caught in stone.
Of transformation or being in a stone misery
I think this is meant more to be felt than understood--as if "sleep" or your inner world seems more real and free than the reality of the world outside. Awake--engaged--you're locked/frozen in that disassociative state. I'm not sure if that hits the mark, but that's how it feels to me. Another nice piece.
Cutting new gills for a breath of fresh air. Might work.