Why I'm Ruined
I used to like hobbies.
The richness of having hands.
The hunger dipped in a toothpick and drawn on paper.
You use your hobby-brain.
And when you stop?
Paint goes boom.
My old sewing thread tangled in my nose, making me sneeze.
When you’re young, slicing up paper with scissors is incredible.
Circles chopped up.
I would take old magazines and tear out my favorite pictures.
I liked my hands and fingertips.
When you’re young you have hobbies!
School, hobbies, school.
When you grow up, it’s like hobbies are peeled off tape.
I had hands, fingers, and joy.
The richness of having hands, no matter how long or short, fast fingertips, reach for the perfect button for a mixed media project.
So I got an office job.
Stuffy, musty old crafts might as well be buried in my stuffy, musty grave.
Best chance they’ll make it into my skeleton hands.
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