I leave the things I don't want in my

Pockets and then send them

Through the wash.

Then drainage sends them

To the ocean, and I'm rid of them

For good-

His love, in the form of letters and

Square-folded notes.

Their money, in the form of

A bi-weekly allowance.

List upon list of the things that I want,

The things that scare me,

The things that I miss;

They're all the ocean's problem now.

Sometimes I imagine the ocean floor

Littered with notebook paper, and

I get paranoid, thinking that somehow

Someone might still read them.

So I worry about cleaning up the ocean

For a bit but then there's always

Another load of wash

That has to be done.