if only i were adequate, if only i could strive for mediocrity,
take up the cello instead of this mantle that bows my back and lowers my gaze
until i see naught but the dirt clinging to my tights, my too-large legs, my
obvious solidity on this earth. if only i were not so melodramatic, overly
flowery in the writing, that greatest of sins of the amateur as hemingway says.
and i spent years looking for daisies and daffodils woven into my words,
combing them out petal by petal, and here i am back again with too many commas
and must i pound my hand with each adjective? yes. i am not as fragile as i
look. or more fragile than that, in all likelihood. i will not pretend i have
eaten today. i will not pretend i am concerned.
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