I Could Write Like Her If
If my phone would stop fucking ringing.
If my kids stopped needing to eat.
If every time I opened my computer the dog didn't have to take a shit.
If I could just commit.
If my mother wasn't already a writer.
If my father wasn't already a writer.
If my mother didn't hate poetry.
If my best friend didn't have a book deal.
If the laundry would fold itself.
If there was no such thing as Facebook. Or Twitter. Or the whole fucking internet.
If I knew someone was reading.
If I didn't have to make a living.
If I there was a better word than "blog."
If everything wasn't about content.
If I didn't care what you thought.
If I stopped trying so hard.
If I just gave in.
If I could focus harder.
If I could smile more.
If I gave a shit.
If books were real things that you carried around with a cover that no one swapped out for marketing purposes and you, reader, dog eared the pages. And wrote your name in it. And lent it to your friend, by mailing it to her, halfway across the country, because it mattered. That much.