The trouble with being a writer

The trouble with being a writer
he told me over a roughed-up composition notebook
with the cover secured back to its pages
with duct tape and a smattering of staples
Is that everyone thinks you're writing about them
You write a tragedy about a pretty girl
And a pretty girl you went to school with is offended
You write a romance about a quiet girl
And a quiet girl you went to school with is flattered

he scrawls as he speaks
his pencil moving over the pages like well-learned choreography
smudging his crutched letters and coating
the side of his hand in a slick sheen of silvery graphite
You give someone a mom who was never there
And your mother starts crying
And asks if you really feel like that
You give someone a dad who beats them
And your dad throws a fit
And yells at you that he's not like that

his pencil won't stop until it breaks
words pouring from it even as the tip is concave
its brush strokes thick as the blood reddening his temples
And you can depict the love of your life
As a heroine of the Gods
Whose eyes are oceans with secrets buried in their folds
Whose hair flows for miles out behind in her own wind
Whose smile is the sun itself
Who saves your world and saves it time
And Time
Again

And trouble is,
She may not even read the book.