She calls herself a writer,
tearing at the fringes of tablecloths and
pinning post-its to her kitchen clock, mourning for
the setting sun in the back alleys and celebrating
the birth of stars in the metro station. She tears apart words
and puts them back together, calling it a true poet’s phrase,
then destroys the phrase and leaves it on the
counter, next to the half-cut onions. She learns that living
as a writer is a miserable, miserable life, because the
words always revolt, tearing her apart in return, and she always
allows them to, staying up ‘till four in the morning to
wrangle the words and put them to sleep. She finds that
being a writer is more than just a job, more than just a profession.
She finds that being a writer is a run through life;
never being able to turn back and release the words within her once she’s
taken the pact.