The midnight blush of forgotten sins
makes me sit up in bed,
sweat running like tears
as my ego turns my spine to wood,
then forces it to splinter
so I can’t turn my head
without the reminders,
always the stab of needless wreckage to my innards
so I never lose sight of the tar I’ve soaked in.
Remember, remember the words you said.
Remember what was spilt and broken.
The only remedy is to stop turning,
to reside in the stillness
and let the shards be taken
let the waters drip over their sides,
again and again,
until my back is curved to the floor
and my hands are thrown open.
And through the mixture of water and salt,
splinters turn at last to driftwood,
and my palms are full of softened bark,
trinkets for jewelry or a child’s game
or simply an adornment for sand.