The lost map that lies buried in my belly like a sunken ship. Parchment paper of scribbled dreams, slightly worn at the edges. Written in blood pricked from my index finger, written in a language I no longer speak. I long to stretch my limbs and hands and eyes, open them to sky and earth. An empty vessel pouring over and over again. I am wrapped up tight like a message in a bottle waiting to be read, to wash ashore scraped by pebbles, soft like sea glass. I ebb and flow with tide, wax and wane with moon. I used to own dreams, conjured out of creativity, wrapped in hope. Now they own me and I am lost among strangers faces, dark alleys, ghosts and animals trying to feed me memory. To wake me, pull my thoughts like string. Go deeper, they tell me. Fall into the abyss, the blackened estuary where the broken parts of me mix. Into the sand and reeds. Dig down. Hands like shovels, feet settle like stone. Wait. Slow dive. Dream soft now behind a thick tattooed skin of stories and armored bones.