i try to write something, because i know
if i can throw enough blank white sheets
into this horizonless sea, then perhaps
i can sop it all up or patch all the leaks or
fix whatever's wrong is the mantra but i'm not sure
what the wrong is. i'm bloated on emotions and
shards of my sea glass heart ride the tide -
if i can use words to drain the ocean, i can
go dredging for your lost pieces, i tell myself like
i am a fractured puzzle disintegrating into pulp
and i can be held together by the net of a notebook.
i use all of my paper mache mush to sculpt
new organs are hard to come by, but jellyfish
pulse through the sea like a heartbeat so
i stuff one into the sea of me - tentacles slither
through my veins and the sting feels sweet.
i swim deep to make new memories but all i make
are collapsed lungs that shrivel under the weight
of remembering old ones. pufferfish glide past:
i jam two between ribs and watch them inflate with
long sharp skewers break through my soft skin
and i wish they were at least filled with ink
so i could tattoo progress into my palms.
but instead i lean back and let myself sink into
the shifty seafloor sand engulfs my empty notebook.