Jetsam, not flotsam.

I didn’t know what I was seeing. Teal plastic flakes in my hand. I don’t wear teal; I don’t have teal ink. I didn’t know what I was seeing and I heard a soft crackle and the thing I had worn every day for the past nine months broke apart and ended.

It was a great relief that I didn’t see coming. There are so many pieces of me floating away now. I thought they were flotsam but they are jetsam instead.

Facebook, the speakeasy I am trying to forget the passphrase to, smirks in my browser history. Nearly a month later and the twitch starts to calm. Every once in a while, someone notices I’m not there and says something to me about it. I have a little sadness about not knowing things, but I stubbornly shove the sadness in a pocket and wander on.

This diminishing is addictive. I look forward to the semester break for time to sort through and redistribute my stuff. There is too much around; it can’t all be mine. I bought books for years to shore up a deteriorating coastline, and now they are just sandbags.

Three objects I use the most each day are red, not black or purple. I am done with camouflage; I carry tiny bits of fire.

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I acknowledge that I live and work on stolen Cowlitz, Clackamas, Atfalati, and Kalapuya land.
I give respect and reverence to those who came before me.