Maybe I’m born to set things free—
to let them go, and
watch that distance
slowly swallow them whole.
Maybe (surely) my talent is
cracking my heart, little by little.
(But only during the thunderclaps
so no one else can hear.)
Busted but beating,
I fashion its fractures
into art by
filling its spaces with
vibrant pigments and
sounds that satisfy.
Good as new, I tell myself in
a tone that’s all too familiar,
and proudly display it for anyone
willing to have look.
They pick it apart with their
curiosity— their invasive wonder.
“What do you call this piece?”
they’ll ask.
With a smile, I reply,
“Yesterday.”
Sep 2, 2025
Sep 2, 2025 at 11:35 PM UTC
Maybe I’m born to set things free—
to let them go, and
watch that distance
slowly swallow them whole.
Maybe (surely) my talent is
cracking my heart, little by little.
(But only during the thunderclaps
so no one else can hear.)
Busted but beating,
I fashion its fractures
into art by
filling its spaces with
vibrant pigments and
sounds that satisfy.
Good as new, I tell myself in
a tone that’s all too familiar,
and proudly display it for anyone
willing to have look.
They pick it apart with their
curiosity— their invasive wonder.
“What do you call this piece?”
they’ll ask.
With a smile, I reply,
“Yesterday.”
© Bitsy Sanders, August 2025
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