The shells I picked out of the sand
as the sunlight licked my skin
in a foreign tongue
are now gathering dust,
on the top shelf of my dresser,
above rows and rows of
work shoes,
unused sneakers,
sandals longing for socks,
repulsive crocs.
The only pair I wear
is still by the door,
sole separating from shoe,
having sacrificed itself
for the pleasures of the day,
tracked sand all along the house,
and protected me from the tiny grains
that are still big enough
to inconvenience me.
They don’t gather dust.
They gather shells.
And remind me of
everything they have taken from me.
A beach. A girl. A kiss.
A life I dearly miss.
Held together by the sun.
A place I’m still running from,
the only proof
Raw
