she writes the same sentences
over and over, hoping to feel
the touch of your magic
eraser, again, again.

she’s scared, you see.
she lies with every stroke
of that pen; her thoughts
are not her own, really.

she wants to be stunning, impressive
and jots down something closer
to the way she wants to feel.
too bad it’s never real.

she hates her thoughts,
chews on her cap until inspiration strikes.
that phrase is beautiful but
it’ll never compare to your eyes.

rubbing her temples, she
looks at the scribbles,
blowing away eraser marks.
wrong, wrong, wrong.

it’s not the way she
wants it.
it doesn’t flow,
doesn’t even make sense.

she tilts her head, falls
for the illusion.
nothing’s more gorgeous than
the impossible.

her task is simple:
write out your feelings.
but she can’t find
the right words.

“i am a poet,
therefore i am a liar.”
you tell her she’s beautiful,
but you’re wrong.