There are voices that whisper to me at 3am
writer, they whisper
all you have to scream to the silence is words
writer, they whisper
we give you permission to spin your cobwebs
out of any object or grace
writer, they whisper,
we have already defined your end
you will twist yourself into a net of
crystalized cobwebs
that you yourself created
but did not write an escape to
writer, they whisper,
we have blurred the defined lines
between girl
and writer
being
and word-spinner
named
and unnamed
writer, they whisper
we make the walls talk to you
and the reflections in the glass speak
forget that you are girl
and define yourself as writer
forget that you breathe air
and exhale the remains onto paper

no, I whisper,
as I separate girl and writer,
being and word-spinner
named and unnamed
no, I whisper,
I will not define myself
by what you say I am
no, I whisper,
no matter how innocent a definition
you would make me believe you are
no, I whisper,
you are a drug
a drug, writer
no, I will not overdose
not on your intoxicating rushes
midnight highs
music induced euphoria
I will not choke on creativity,
will not give up happiness for you
you cannot be my downfall
if I take you in moderation

i force the writer whispers to be
quieter
the tangible calls of my name to be
louder
I will live until life has been
loved
and cruel time has stolen my
breath.

not you, writer.