“You like too much!” she said to me.
“Make up your mind!” she cried.

An inkjet cartridge emptied of its contents
The things it could have produced, if given enough time.

She
was allowed to eat poetry, the ink dribbling down her lips,
Soaking her shirt in the black stains of abstract words,
Distracting comparisons, and personified stones coming to
Life.

She
resurrected lithograph golems,
who groaned at the consumption of their
Content.

But me?

Why does my pencil glide across the page?
I should have taken to the study of flesh and blood
unlike the girl who speaks in tongues.

Perhaps…
Perhaps she’s right.
Perhaps the world doesn’t need another performer on the world’s stage.
Perhaps… there are already far too many.

My tongue ripped out,
My brain purged and washed.
No more slicing into pages
With my graphite-knife.