Daylyn Carrigan is a junior from Puyallup, WA, studying English Writing and Communications. She is a poet, photographer, and songwriter, who finds that inspiration strikes most often at three a.m. so she keeps a pen and journal by her bedside, hoping to catch the words before they slip away.
Nights are spent on my left side, watching my plump figure as it sinks into a toppled hourglass, where the sands lie still and I have all the time in the world to be. Or, to ponder the beating of my chest, rising and falling like the supple back of a dolphin as it slips above and below the meniscus of an ocean. Or, to read my striae like a map, finding north, then reading the contours, thumbing the proof of my elasticity. Excursions, success found only where new marks and dimples are not. Patches of smooth sailing, where I float until I find myself asleep.
The seashell inside my ear is balding. The bristles fall out in waves, polluting the fluid of the canal. But the shell is not broken, it came this way, being flushed out day to day with sound until I wake to find none left. I do not always mind the thought of this. I have heard more than I should. But I know that I will miss his groggy Good morning, when his voice is deeper, too deep to find its way through the canal and into the last thinning hairs of my tiny seashell.