memory clings to my porous depths,
moments now all but nonexistent, in a
shatter-scar painted fog,
rolling in further,
each hour before dawn.
what I have not yet even begun
has already transpired,
and dug ditches into
point-blanched seconds,
as I sit,
on the windowsill,
looking out over the ocean.
its countless cerulean rivulets,
tugging, at the
worn-down and torn-apart fabric,
binding the center of my chest,
each little shard
another droplet of
growing, smiling sharpness.
it whispers:
"you're in love
with the sea,
so
why don't
you just
god-
**** drown?"
so I set aside
all my nails,
and walk down,
to the shoreline;
but
I'm just
sad words,
and
no action;
so I slip back, to square one,
just a little further down,
and
rinse,
and repeat.