I write

ESSAYs,

I said.

 

Their praise

gently, lucidly, drunkenly

floating in and out of my head.

 

Why?

 

“Becky’s the writer…Becky’s the writer….Becky’s the writer…Becky’s the writer”

Is left echoing in my head.

 

What?

Me?

Poems?

No?

 

“Can I write?” I hear myself ask.

 

To late.

The answer is

on loop

in my head

forever there

 

“Becky’s the writer.”

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