Like what the split in a banana split feels, if it could,

lately, one half of me feels no passion for poetry,

not the the way I used to,

and this indifference rises out of the other half

which doesn’t and has never felt a goddamn thing.

And the indifference doesn’t stop dripping there.

It’s getting harder and harder to care about summers

of fun and February vacations, for starters.

Neither seem to have any color anymore,

and neither do I come to think of it, literally

and figuratively.

I think the last tan I got was twenty years ago,

so yeah,

it’s getting more difficult to care about me too,

forget poetry.

Maybe I’ve become a depersonalized kind of vegetable

that only moves if the light shines on it,

or if someone by accident happens to hold it,

hell, it would settle for just a conversation most days,

fucking social media.

And maybe it should hurt more than it does when

I confess I’m getting harder and harder to find,

and that even if I did find me,

I’m not sure I’d want to wait around to meet.

But it’s not that I have no self-esteem to speak of.

On the contrary, it’s that somewhere along the line

I learned to hold too much of it,

and can now only allow every part of me to be

what it is, without judgment or fixing,

whether it be good, bad, or something in between.

Without knowing it,

I’ve made it my mission in life to become a sweet mess.