I am the broken spines of paperback novels,

Twisted in the blankets and spilling from my eyes,

Drawing together a barricade to hide behind:

Plath and Parker and Sexton, Tartt and King.

Washed bone and empty cups,

I find myself thirsty in the middle of a draught that did not have a beginning.

Sitting seashells in the oddest places,

Sand and sea spilling out,

Leftovers from the summer before.

A sand dollar with a single chip in its edge,

A reminder that I break everything that I touch.