Sponge

Maybe I don’t care about anything

I told him

Because that bright spark of passion, that artist’s rebellion, that unfurling flower in your stomach that tells you, “create-” 

Was in everyone else’s garden

Across the white fence

Watched over by a painted gnome

And inaccessible to me.

I haven’t felt the need to do something

to create something beautiful and better

Since I don’t remember.

Since sophomore year when journalism seemed like a beacon in the dark sea of humanity

Since writing stories that made me feel like a poet

Weaving words in a way that meant something. 

I won’t blame my professors

or my boyfriend for distracting me.

And I’m not depressed or disinterested.

I still feel the thrill

of a voice onstage,

A warbling note or a word in a line of a poem that makes time stop air move makes me relish in the stillness of a moment

I still watch quietly

The crash bash bong brill shoot of a musical instrument

And fingers and mouths that I won’t ever understand

And minds that compose sounds and stories

That I wonder.

But I don’t wonder what I can achieve.

I don’t feel the siren call of a pen, anymore

I don’t want to channel art through me

Just in me.

And keep it safe and building like a dragon’s lair of gold

A reservoir of liquid shining metal that’s only mine and all the world’s

All that beauty.

But he said something about how that’s not all bad.

That maybe this doesn’t have to mean I’m empty.

He said, “maybe you have to take things in before you can put things out.”

Maybe I have to relearn to breathe before my lungs can remember how to produce melody.

Maybe this city is a hotspring

That will fill me

And rinse me

And gently turn my insides out like laundry on a hanging line

And scrub the trauma clean.

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