Micropoetry Monday: The Writer’s Life

Every morning,
Miss English stood before her mirror,
curled her apostrophes & quotation marks,
which made her look quite smart,
ensured her conjunctions coordinated,
& that her tittles defied just the right amount of gravity.
When she broke down on the information superhighway
& moseyed into the skiddy comments section of Reddit,
she learned the language of the emoticon
& that for those who talked too much,
punctuation & misspellings didn’t matter.

Through her typewriter,
the introvert known as Elizabeth von Baron
became known as Dear Libby,
so that as she became established in the spirit,
her shyness,
in the flesh,
disintegrated.

She scribbled on the walls,
a pre-literate graffiti,
a magenta crayon being her tool of choice.
She drew her stories on the carbon paper
her mother brought home,
each picture numbering 1000 words.
She wrote her stories in black-&-white
composition notebooks—
stories that rewrote her history—
so that she became the worst sort
of unreliable narrator,
for she plagiarized from no one’s life,
not even her own.

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