When I was younger I thought Art

was the still life painting of an apple next to a vase,

a meticulous arrangement guarded by a frame and

stationed as a boundary,

charged with keeping out all of life that is messy.

 

I could not hear the vase whispering that 

it was made by motion,

malleable as it spun on the potter’s wheel,

not still but rather marked by its movements.

 

I used to think art lived inside its frame

that it began and ended in itself

until I listened to the vase insist

We are all vessels

shaped by each rotation of the Earth’s

pottery wheel

mighty by our malleability. 

 

I used to think the art that lived inside of me

was weak when my words wavered under the weight of my

Stutter,

worthy only when whittled and willed into a

smooth sounding stream.

 

I was convinced my ragged breath turned paintbrush

into razorblade

cutting through canvas until each sound was 

stripped, skeletal, and savaged

each word raw, ripped, and ravaged,          

 

and maybe I was right. 

 

But maybe that canvas needed to be stripped away to reveal

the rawness

of vulnerability,

that is unafraid and unabashed

empowered by the honesty of imperfection.

 

So here I will give you my words

and I will give them to you proudly

because no, they’re not the kind of art that will submit to the walls of frame

but thats okay because they are powerfully spun wild and untame.

 

Because whoever said talk is cheap never talked to me

He did not know that 

my every syllable gets sculpting, my every sound gets painting

and that my stuttered speech is an act of creation

and creation holds back no truth.

 

So when Merriam Webster defines art as something created

with imagination and skill and that is beautiful

I will see the way my stutter strips away shields 

and lets me wear insecurity without fear

 

And when my introduction takes too long and you ask me if I’ve forgotten my name 

I will tell you no, I am simply claiming it every time

 

and when you try to finish my sentence and take my words as your own

I will tell you that these words were made to spiral off this unharnessed tongue

 

and when you tell me I am brave just for speaking

I will tell you that wielding my voice is a privilege I never learned to fear.

 

and when you tell me to slow down and take a breath

I will tell you the words that run through me are fire and they

will not dim their glow for anything

 

and when you ask me why I speak this way 

I will tell you it is art

and when you ask me why I speak this way 

I will tell you it is art

and when you ask me why I speak this way 

I will tell you it is art

 

because damn it, some things need repeating.