to make him
fluid across the floor
her hair and arms clinging
for him to lead, move them into a
spotlight
for someone to catch
if she falls
a writer may only scribble over his mistakes
cause him to question himself when she's quiet
looking off, and it's never someone else
but an ideal room with reams of paper, smooth pens
the place that catches her when she falls
a writer could become a dancer, wince in tight shoes
out in a crowd where she can't plan her moves
and let him lead, dissolve the care for her audience
let there be no need to write tonight
a dancer's partner may not last for too many songs
but she had them all, if only for a song
so many pages fill her mind
There are some women men write poems about. They note their ivory neck or dainty hands or long golden locks. The women who sink ships, who start wars, who become muses. And then there are women like me, who often cause men to hold their head in confusion, who aggravate and irritate them. I never said that by including me in his a life that his life would not be complicated, as it often is.
With ignorance, I have often wished I could be the former woman, to not be so wrapped up inside my thoughts, to be beautiful and simply that. I can't really blame a man who falls for a pretty face, and even if she may be simple, I cannot slant him there.
Within all writers, there simply must be that longing to be led, to be swept off her feet and removed from her thoughts. To be wooed. I would like to compile all the women writers I admire that haven't already killed themselves and find out if there are any similarities. Even if I am not a writer, I believe I think and act as one, which is close enough to set borders around me and make me feel liberated and confined at the same time.