Perspective

I was looking for a lightbulb in the hall closet

and found the tin box instead, tucked behind the rags.

Inside, the cobalt blue is a cracked, dry desert,

a cake of pigment that refused to survive the years.

I can still hear Henderson’s voice in the humid room,

how he tapped his ruler against my shaky horizon line.

He told the class my eyes were fundamentally broken,

that I couldn't see the way the world actually leaned.

I stopped trying to draw the trees after that day.

I just stared at the page until the white felt like a wall.

Now I touch the brush and the bristles are stiff,

holding onto a failure I wasn't even allowed to finish.