There is no *** in a writer.
It explains it all:

why I can never fill a doorway,
or have eyes on me.
It is why these features hollow out
in sunless days spent inside.

It is why I shall never satisfy
another woman – too scared
to commit to flesh what I would
with paper. An artist is full of ***;

watch as he paints her eyes in colour,
as he moulds clay to the shape of her hands,
as he whispers longingly what he’ll do to her;
whilst I am but the broken arms
that feign passion in the night.

I know now that whilst I can tattoo
my love inside your heart;
I can never match his strokes,
his arms, his languor in confidence.

Go – find your artist.