until you publish that book that they find on the store shelves, you are not a writer & until you record that song that they hear on the charts, you are not a musician &
been addressed as “broad” while sitting in the park & “dame” while on the train, wondering if it was the fucking 40’s, thinking these men a pain, found herself sitting in the
though ludicrous the fortunate way around the storm may be the violent mannerism found inside the calm beneath the skin behind the eyes along the quiet spine that swims just like
thought to be deadened after the attack from another where one let one in & it didn’t turn out as beautiful as was thought to be had, because the storybooks lie & the movies lie better,