Shells

The shells I picked out of the sand
as the sunlight licked my skin 
in a different tongue
are now gathering dust,
on the top shelf of my dresser,
above rows and rows of
worn out boots, 
unused sneakers,
sandals longing for socks, 
repulsive crocs, 
all of which are gathering dust, 
because the one pair I always wear is still by the door,
strewn about, 
the sole separating from the shoe,
having sacrificed itself for the pleasures of the day,
and tracked sand all along the house, 
and protected me from the tiny grains
that are still big enough to inconvenience me, 
is begging to be cleaned, wiped, and forgotten,
rather than remind me of 
what they have taken from me,
a beach under the sun, 
a place I’m still running from,
the only proof that I have lived at all.