Wanting to be caught.

I am not happy with you. I used to be, right up until the point you told me you were throwing me back. You are an expert fisherman: patient, skillful. You reeled me in and whispered that you were a novice. It's all luck, really. I wanted to be your very best catch. I tried to make my scales twinkle in the sunlight. I wanted to make you proud. I did, for a little while.

But then, you frowned. You told me I wasn't the right one. The right one, you said would tug at your line so hard the boat would capsize. The right one for you would be beautiful, her movements graceful. I was just fine, you said, but you could catch better. You told me you were doing me a favor as you flung me back into the sea. I would be happier back in the water, far away from your boat. It's all luck, really. Too bad you caught me.

By the time I broke the surface, my scales were dull. I no longer shined. I looked around, and my sea was unpopulated. No other fishermen were around, the only movement was the gentle wake as you steered your boat away from me.

Now I swim in the seaweed, the day shadowy. I wish I was never brought into the air, where I could touch the sunlight and hear the sound of your boat's gentle rocking.
I've found I've forgotten how to breathe underwater.