Seasick, scroll through self-portrait images
and a frenzy of dated, annotated food logs.
Poetry dies on the backburner. Messages
starve unread in my texts, I draft obsolete
responses in my Google Docs, lose them 
in the snowfields of white pixels sparkling.
Go out, agoraphobic, to buy a three ring binder
to sort my life into. They don’t sell body bags.
The Office Depot is humid, a herpetarium,
a cage for amphibian skinwalkers like me. 
I wilt in a castle of printer paper, sucking air
through gills, lungs not yet fully formed, not yet
meant for land, to be an adult. Get back in the car.
Hear the rain smashing gore on the windshield,
crackling on glass. It sounds like a sparkler struck
aflame when driving faster, chasing futures, ghosts,
burning up ink pens, lapping up spilled milk, shame,
spilled blood, flipping through pages to find the start.