My hair is fake. It’s bleached out and I’m not being all I can be. I pretend to be some beautiful creature that crawls along the forest floor with her pen scribbling lovely words across this lily pad.
But I'm not.
I pretend to be inspired by this place that grows from my open window but I’d rather slam it instead.
I am not a poet.
Somewhere between August and vodka I changed.
My pen aches in my hand and I ache.
People look at me and my green eyes and breathe, “You are beautiful.”
But I’m not.
My hair is hollow and they don’t see the girl that runs when it gets too windy.
Because the one day I sat in the wind and let the goose bumps take over and litter my limbs I realized a poet never claims to be a poet. I’d been just smiling and shaking and saying what my own ears wanted to hear.