I have four jars of Play-Doh
sitting on my desk.
Pink, purple, orange, teal.
They’re slightly mixed,
flecks of the others
in each color.
worn out but still perfect.
I can’t bring myself
to throw them away,
to face the world head on.
Instead, I create.

I create worlds with them,
worlds where I’m still
carefree, free from anxiety,
worlds of singing flowers
and rain made from
drops of sunshine.
Crude purple mountains to scale,
twisting teal rivers to cross.
Small in scale,
but an adventure in itself;
an adventure in freedom.
An adventure in nostalgia.
An adventure of coping with
approaching adulthood
by avoiding it at every cost.

I create art with them,
swirling colors,
childlike in simplicity,
the lack of complexity
freeing me from life
for even a moment.
The scent that creates memories:
afternoons spent
at the kitchen table
making coils and creatures,
learning that it tastes
worse than it smells
and to not let it stain
the wooden table.

I travel with them.
An orange moon that
is most certainly made of cheese.
A fat spaceship that could
never really fly,
but who really cares about reality?
Bumpy alien planets
with bright pink people
with buggy eyes and no legs.
Simple in actuality,
complex in imagination.

I have four jars of Play-Doh.
They remind me of the past,
giving me a lifeline
to survive the present.