Astrid

I was somehow convinced that I was a product of your poetry.

I thought your words were what defined me

And your voice was what sang me into being.

I truly believed that if you played just one note of my simple melody

Things would be okay.

I never realized how I was distracted from your intentions.

The way your words tripped over each other,

Twisted into brutal entanglements that I thought intricate at first,

But were truly enigmatic and unnecessary,

Utterly riddled with thorny thought, and made oh so ever-present by the savage angles of your 

font. 

I believed my worth was written in your handwriting.

That if you just wrote one solitary verse in my name,

I'd be birthed once more as a celestial muse to your divine vision.

Little did I know that your form was more pedantic than prophetic.

I dwindled in the dying scenery like a low candle, dripping wax upon the horizon's inky 

twilight.

I felt as though my life's purpose was contained within the vial of your sultry ink.

My potential frothing upon the lip of the well,

And slowly bubbling, flattening, oozing back down into carbon depths,

Losing hope, but eager to be plunged upon and thrust into existence.

However, you said my pages embodied the stain of virginity, and thus they remained permanently untouched.

I soon thereafter realized that my essence was simply not meant to be drawn.

Not painted with words, nor scrubbed against and berated by prickly brushes and sharp nibs.

And so, hand over hand, I scaled the length of your pen

Slouching, like a cryptid, to sit upon the back of your palm.

I guided your hand.