Huddled over her keyboard beneath the skylight,

She wondered whether her story might blow up in her face,

Spattering her skin with the ink of thousands of wasted words.

She’d be exposed,

Locked up once again behind that heavy door labelled

IMPOSTER

In block letters.

 

And in the world outside the real wordsmiths would shine on,

Sharing likes and heart emojis,

Collecting accolades,

And she’d hear them, typing away with giddy glee,

While she sat,

Staring at four walls,

Slinging mud at her own mind

For having been pretentious enough to dream again.

 

She took a breath.

Checked her storyboard.

Sat up straight.

She emptied the bucket of mud out of the window,

Refilled it with glitter,

And sprinkled a handful over her head.

 

Onwards, she told herself.