poem i wrote a week ago

slinky

when i was younger i liked playing with slinkies

the infinite rings of plastic entertained my restless hands

and when you’d push them down the stairs

it was like an induction to the world

like a baby bird leaving the nest

whenever it’d get tangled i always knew i could fix it

i took pride in untangling the thin plastic, even as it poked and prodded at my soft skin

the slinky was my toy after all, i had to look after it myself.

i liked playing with slinkies 

i liked fixing the tangle 

the mending so satisfying 

i sought to ruin it purposefully 

but when i couldn’t fix it again

i just gave up 

what’s the point anyway?

it’s not my responsibility 

i’m not obligated to look after anyone but myself 

so there it sat dejected 

infinitely tangled at the bottom of my closet

and i know i could’ve fixed it

but i didn’t 

and i don’t care

i don’t want to care about anything anymore 

i am thinking of submitting this to my school for book week, and also this ither competition where it could get made into a song, but idk lol. i dont even know if it counts as poetry.