My water bottle still smells like the river.
I like it that way.
I stare at the sand in the grooves of my sandals under fluorescent lights.
Like a shell without the ocean’s saltwater sheen.
Fish out of water.
It’s different in here.
Cold. Lifeless. Bland. Corporate.
I scream internally where no one can hear.
For color. For the outside.
For all the “inappropriate.”
Like an eleven year old with a matured brain.
Expected words tumble out of my mouth,
yet my mind remains fixated on river water and glistening sand granules.
I order a Margaret Atwood novel in-between nods of half-attention.
I’m here, yet not.
My spirit’s out there, roaming like an animal in everything.
It can’t breathe in conference rooms.