the healing always hurts worse than the original harm.
i am the conglomerate effort of everyone who has ever hurt me: i am the cobined detritus
washed up on the beach of my name.
(my name which is not mine, and is not me.)
those of us walking our own coastlines 
have turned tidal ourselves.
there is no piece of this continent i have not bounded with my own feet, no stone
on this shore i have not cried over, adding my own heat and salt
to the absolution of these cold troughs.
bury me here: i would stay unknown.

in the searchlight of a bright moon i move down the coast piece by piece.
you thought to join me, or witness me, but i leave no map and this land protects my body
as pure as only trauma can.
you will never be close to me, you will never know my mind, and the body
is cast off as easily as kelp.
i bless your intuition, knowing i can run faster than your eyes can see.

which cove should i start to bail, which cypress copse has the most bodies buried?
i was not made for excavation
(mine is a lunar mode of being, metaphysical, not mechanical)
but i have been told this is the only way.
i dig with slow hands, cupping the grit into my lap one palmful at a time.
there is no end here and never will be: only the surety
that i will leave, keep going, keep digging.
i will never run out of reasons to keep running.