joann's has seen me at my worst and she has seen me at my best
at 8pm on a thursday night
eyes wide open with panic as i stare at a bolt of muslin
and back at my bank account
and back at the line next to the fabric counter
and back at my raw wrists
and back at the canvas assignment post reading
“add french seams”
“create movement”
“add darts”
“add an invisible zipper”
“create something”
but i cannot be forced to create
and still scrape up the tiny bits of emotional energy i have left
to figure out everything else
joanns has seen me at my worst
she has seen me hungover on a sunday morning
eyes empty
pouring paints and thread
and beads and gems
and fake flowers
into my cart
trying to make sense of it all
trying to gather up my brain and put it into something tangible
something that makes sense to me
something that gives me purpose
joanns has seen the buttons i’ve sewn onto my lovers’ clothes
and the threads i’ve licked the ends of
the pencils i’ve sharpened
and the needles i’ve lost in carpets
the canvases i’ve painted and glued on
and the stickers i’ve hoarded
and the journals i’ve taken with me into hospitals.
joanns has also seen me at my best
she has seen me laugh with friends and coworkers and my partner
as we thumb through well-loved clothing patterns
and novelty cake pans
and goofy shit in the clearance section
that nobody would ever want. she has seen me in fits of inspiration
flipping through sheets of felt and scrapbook paper
and excitedly sharing what i’m working on
with the old ladies in line with me.
and i walked up to joanns for the last time
during their liquidation sale—
i placed one foot in front of the other on the linoleum tile
and mourned the dingy fluorescent lights
the picked-over yarn aisle
and the empty bolts that once held spiderman fabric
and i mourned my old self
the one who was dragged by the ankle
across concrete
who suffered adversity
and turmoil
and had to live with a mind that only sought to destroy them
but despite it all
felt the incessant drive to create.