Charcoal smudged
over rough
picked fingertips.
You forgot
which glass
you were taking sips from.
Brushes turned to brick
because you got distracted
by a new idea
or disheartened
and couldn't get up
to wash the acrylic.
And the easel has been felt
standing for days
with a canvas
that by now
is just taking up space
in the turned-up room
you haven't left,
full of jars
and things you've kept
just in case.
YOU ARE READING
HEAVY
PoetryIn this collection of poetry, Fee writes about their experience with mental illness, gender identity, relationships and finding themself as a seventeen year old.
