Malcolm, or perhaps Oskar by Lisa Andrews

I carry what is left of this story on a sea-tumbled back.
Although do not expect too much.
Every knot is a lacuna,
every cut a dereliction.
And I left my most precious secrets scattered
along the shore, hidden among the seashells.
Still others snagged on brambles as the world around me
crumbled.
We are all made of driftwood and abandoned dreams.

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