How…stereotypical.
Poem. Not prose.

I am…a writer, not a fighter
But I don’t bleed ink.
(Least – I don’t think
I do)
Never tried…she lied.

I am…an artist (rhyme’s the hardest)
Yet I hate the light.
That’s not too bright (!)
Is it?
Oh! Badly styled…she smiled.

I am…a scientist, blissed,
Blessed with lack of labcoat
Flat of throat.
I quote…
“Physics! Bored!” … she snored.

I am…a musician, listen, (said like Sean Connery)
Heart beats blood, not songs
Piano keys feel wrong
And cold.
Lyris dead…she said.

I am…a historian, boring-un?
Who ignores a date
Past by, too late
For change.
Hitler died! … she cried.

I am…a geek, and therefore weak.
Lost in deep fiction.
Tired of friction.
Out there.
Won’t be missed…she hissed.

I am…a friend, and to that end
I rotted with your life.
Bruised in the strife
Of men.
I’m cold…she told.

HIM.

I am…yours, after wars
Sixteen years long
No longer strong
With you.
Love you…too.
x