The Plunge Poem by Avery Koplin

First—
I wake. The skin shudders, soft, unmoored,
but there's air, air heavy, waiting,
the molecules—do they see me? Do they know?
Colliding with my pores—oxygen, nitrogen,
pulling apart, tearing apart,
I stretch, stretch—straining,
faster—faster still—
But not yet—
not yet. The hair stands, brittle—
resistant, molecules too large,
I'm still waiting—waiting to burn,
but no, not yet, not yet—
this is only the beginning.

Then—
A shudder of heat. Not warmth—
not warm warmth at all, but a rip through me,
the skin is stretching out, too thin—
I can't breathe but I don't need to—
do I? I don't feel the air pushing me,
but it is—pushing, squeezing,
shoving, what was once slow,
stale, now shoots across my surface
like a chain reaction, hydrogen,
oxygen, ions—pressing against me,
but not enough—
no, not yet.

Later—
Speed—faster—faster, oh, it's getting thicker,
rubbing my nerves raw—
atoms so close—so much friction—
I feel the skin quiver, but it's me,
I am the pulse—
I want to burn—
but it's only pressure,
it pulls at me, takes at me,
wrapping me tight, molecules flickering—
close enough to spark,
but not enough, never enough—
the skin tenses, taut, yet I'm still here,
in the fall.

Harder now—
Oh, the speed— yes—finally,
finally, I feel the molecules running through me,
my pores begging, desperate, to open,
but the collision of force—atoms—heat—
it doesn't stop—no—
they start to burn—they start to tear—
Ozone, nitrogen, bursting—smoke!
No, not yet—this isn't fire yet,
but I am so close—
so close, oh!

Finally—
Oh, now, now, my skin blazes—
rips wide, every cell turns—no more—
it's ash, burning, burning,
pieces—sizzling—ripping—
the flame, it bites deep, I feel it—
nothing left—ashes—ashes—
but no breath, no thought, no memory.
It is algid now.