Galatea

I was tired of being a pretend writer
the words a glimmer
at the edge of sight
the voices in my head
chaotic, unformed
I wanted to be real
like Pinocchio or Pygmalion’s Galatea
to let the ink flow from my heart
and onto the page—or screen
I wanted my words
to reverberate across the net
until I had readers
whose heart beat matched mine

and so, with a gulp and a quavering hand
I chose a name
carved myself into a new being
remembering to cauterize
the ink filled wounds.
and when I fit inside it—
I slipped unnoticed
into the site (it was stories.com then)
and found a forum that wanted poetry
I wrote and posted
and someone liked
so I wrote more
and then I found
a contest that wanted fantasy
which I provided
and while I didn’t win
I started feeling more real

I still bleed ink
and hear voices
but the writer mask
I used to wear
has grown to fit my face
so I call myself a real writer now

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