they said that i couldn't be a writer.

not until i could trap my thoughts in parallel lines before 4 a.m
or until they could see my work as concrete instead of mist.

but i've written symphonies without reading a single note,
composed verses on the curve of a person's smile,
scribbled out a narrative through the fog of a bus window.

the world is mine.
the words are mine.

and they will never know.

a scientist scrawled onto a piece of crumpled paper
and made one simple request.

he called her an enigma and longed to solve her
like he had everything else.
a new experiment, a problem, a challenge.

but she was an artist,
made of words instead of atoms,
preferring constellations to chemistry.

and as she answered, she felt afraid
because she knew he would never succeed.