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
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.