I'm drowning in blank spaces,

pages and pages piling up that need to be written.

So I slip into the skin of someone else,

Entranced by the smooth curves of their words,

the books they will publish next week, next month,

their darkest fears, insecurities, life-changing moments—

on a platter for the public to consume.

On pages that people will pay for.

I lose myself in these things I will never be,

Keep my words hidden behind digital shelves and "private" filters,

too scared of being *that girl*

too scared of assuming that I am talented

or appealing

to an audience that could picture my face as they see

What keeps me up at night, but are more likely to

scroll away before the third line.