Accursed Creator Poem by Charles Malcolm

Not short, I say
as my fingers float above the keys.
Pale either.

Most of my women have been
short and pale.
Dark haired
Irish girls
who liked cigarettes and whiskey
and even me
at one point.

I type Ester
tall and tan.
Blonde.
Australian.
I don't know what she likes.
Chemistry or cricket,
perhaps.

She sits on the page
winking at me
and I despise her
for being tall and tan
and everything
that the others weren't.

I drag my finger across her twisted face
and press delete.

The page is short and pale
and we are alone
again.