monksta

i paw through the sand,
leaving behind those notebook pages
to filter out words like diamonds,
and this litterbox fossil
i've become is probably
very forgettable.

those plastic shovels that
we upturned and overturned
night after night in a cold bed
are just lingering on
against old barnyard ties
strategically placed to keep
my heart tucked in

i have no filter, no paranoia
to keep myself from spilling out
water from every orifice i have
into buckets,
buckets with holes that have grown
bigger over the years

and i could flower a garden
with each swing and throw.

i've found twigs buried deep inside ears
reminders of a childhood i want
so badly to stick in deeper
so they stay very much alive
and i am grateful
that trees can still grow
under all that stress.

my eyes are now scratched out,
and my nose turning itself off,
fingers too numb to notice if indentations
are left after every pen stroke,
all under the basis, that i know
more than i ever could;
more than was ever shown

in these past three weeks of
digging, of remodelling
sand sculptures,
i want the point to last
past even the smallest flood,
in this romance novel.

i look to the stars, half buried
under all i've been,
and know that the toy cranes
and plastic dumptrucks can
pull me out of this mess,
me, my fossils,
right out of this muck,
and know that the only thing
forgettable
will be the outline i once had.