Lament

The pencil in my hand Belongs to a stranger My fingers curl around it Trying to remember the pressure But the signal cuts off somewhere Between wrist and paper And I'm left holding something that Used to resemble a language I spoke frequently Before I forgot how to speak I press the graphite down Expecting a line But nothing happens The page is clinical and bare As it stares back at me Waiting for something I can't give anymore Yet my hand still reaches For the tools Muscle memory refusing to accept That the person who knew What to do with it is gone Art block is merciful compared To this unlearning I can feel it happening From the inside out My own mind erasing the person I spent my whole life becoming The giref is so loud that it's Ringing in my teeth I try to remember the first time I drew something that Truly felt like mine The years of practice The late nights The progress and setbacks The way that art was The only thing listening And all I can find is blank space Where the memory should be As though my brain decided That part of me didn't need to Exist anymore I mourn a childhood companion Who left without saying goodbye I have to live in the house it fled Surrounded by the tools of a trade I can no longer practice The loss is so specific that it has It's own temperature It's own weight and way of Making it hard to breathe

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Sorelle

24 / F

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