"I can't write
another fucking poem," I said.
She shrugged and said,
"so don't," as though
not living up to a
self-imposed challenge 22 days into the deal
would be as easy as
simply
choosing not to.
Some days
it feels like I am but
a constellation of perfectionism and self-doubt
sewn together by
over-active nerves and a too sensitive heart;
I am too much and not
enough
in every situation -
but I'll see it through
to its bitter end.
There are times
when I can't write
poems
because I'm not ready
to see my truth
splayed like roadkill
on my paper.
My heart is speeding
to run away from
today's truths
but I can't poem lies -
the blank page acts as a truth serum
that I'm not ready to
face,
so I'm not writing
another poem.
Tonight, I'll read
novels or watch dumb TV as a salve
to soothe the raw and
achy part:
no one really wants to
see
the bloodstains on the
paper.
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