whisper from an angry editor

said she wouldn’t read
of course she can’t stop herself
of course she can’t stop herself from replying to me
reply to my poetry with hard prose
with accusation
analyzation
with editorial insertion,
redaction

okay
i understand.
no matter.

it’s a dream to think you can write what you want
and not have lovers peering in
guessing
wishing
assigning
reacting

what is a writer to do?

not care?

hide?

is there any other choice?

flinch while you write?

as long as we are the ones favored
we don’t mind the stories bending lines
but when we suspect we are not in the spot
we demand accuracy
fact-checking on the poetry
an accounting for love
that has gone away 

accuse me of prettying up my life?

i don’t need to pretty up my life.
anyone asks me and i tell them too
i’m a dreamer
a cheater
a drunk
and a schemer
i’m x-eyed for truth
even when i can’t see her 
i’m a dancer for you
been a singer for you
been a painter for you
and yes
as a writer
i guess i’m a liar
too

oye:

i know it’s not supposed to happen this way
and i know it’s terrible
we know it happens this way every day
and i know right now it’s terrible

and
if you think its all joy for me
and i’m not tearing at the seams
then
you’re wrapped up only in your point of view
ignoring other wider truths
and maybe you’re a liar too
so
welcome to being a writer.