If I were a girl in a book,
life would be easy, annotated,
dog-eared in all the right places.
But here I am—
watching you gesture like you’ve read Neruda
in the original Spanish,
sweating metaphors into the salsa scene,
spinning syntax in your UX decks
like it’s verse.
And that MFA?
Collecting dust in a Dropbox folder
titled “FinalFinal_THISone.docx.”
You quote Emerson like scripture,
but even Ralph sees through you—
says you’re full of shit.
So tell me,
where are the stanzas that ache?
The lines that sting and bloom?
The ink you swore you’d spill
when the world finally let you speak?
If you’re a poet—
prove it.