And she told him
She didn’t write poetry
Said she didn’t have a sad soul
Or eyes that begged for forgiveness
That words didn’t pour out of her
Like an overflowing bucket
And she told him
She didn’t understand metaphors
Said that the world was black and white
No shades of gray
And definitely no comparison of herself
And a wilting rose
And she told him
She spoke in broken sentences
No punctuation
She had a chronic stutter and
Her thoughts would never be the
Connecting dots of constellations
And she told him
A girl like her wasn’t beautiful
In the way flowers were
Or even the way a hurricane was
No matter what color you painted her
And she told him
She would never be his muse
Or his masterpiece
She wasn’t a canvas or block of stone
He could mold into his vision
And she told him
That he could fall in love
With the mud and dirt that streaked her soul
Or chase his waterlogged image
Of the girl she would never be
Back to its ocean grave
Where it belonged