I.
childhood drifts like debris on polluted waters
it is too late to find seashells that excite one's wandering stubbed fingers,
with the little fingernails,
and the little fingertips.

the awe of laughter in a child's voice and
miracles of shooting stars
dissipate forever into nothing,
burned by the salty ocean.

dr. seuss riddles no longer make wonderers
out of young minds and trees no longer make
for good hammocks.

all lose touch with one's innerness.

II.
she drinks like she is bottomless
and talks like her throat will never sore
pukes like her intestines aren't attached with vessels
falls to the floor.

III.
the older self, i am, who has the keys
and the marrow inside me only grows softer.
and the pornographer gets rougher,
my thoughts seem to slice deeper
deeper
until the skull under my hair follicles concaves.

IV.
i once read a poem about four girls by the ocean
playing.

i once read a poem about finding things by the shore;
seeing.

i once read a poem about losing one's self,
yet loving.

and i am now withered, and still not
knowing.

V.
she speaks to me like a jaded doll
her innards wrapped in barbed wire.
her love however had not escaped
the lips of her heart and
exposes her everything.

and she leaves.

she leaves behind her eyes and the ground turns to quicksand
where buckling knees are understating.
and the debris of the men she threw off like catapults
(and her thoughts)
wash away with the ocean.