I'm not in love with today's poem. If it weren't for NaPoWriMo I wouldn't even post it. It wouldn't make the cut for any finished manuscript. But it's where my mind was tonight and I can't find even one more drop of inspiration right now. And maybe I'll look back on it one day and realize it's better than I thought it was. Or maybe someday I'll hit it with the magic of editing and make what should have been. Either way, for tonight, here it is.
THE BABY, THE BATHWATER
The baby. The bathwater.
That old trope.
But I was a teenager
and hearing it for the very first time.
I understood that the baby was the knowledge
and the bathwater was the bullshit
but I didn't want to be in that prison
no matter what metaphors my mentor spun.
I longed to tell her that I was the baby
and the bathwater was poisoned.
What I'd yet to see
was that I was as alive as I would ever be.
I was still inspired, still excited, still breathing.
There are days I can no longer claim all three.
Regardless, I'm clawing, clamoring at a rebirth.
I'm digging through those memories
to ensure that I don't trip over the same mistakes.
That I don't let the status quo
determine what's next for my soul.
And if I could,
I'd go back to that moment—
the baby, the bathwater—
and throw everything away