Imposter syndrome

I seem to be writing a lot about my monsters right now, but I guess that's sort of fitting in October.

“As a writer,” I try to say
As such a ridiculous imposter,
my monster whispers.

“I want to keep writing. That’s all.”
Just kidding, fool. You want much more.

“I want to be read. I want to read poems.”
Except for the years when you hid
from poems and from writing
and tried to believe it was because of your children.

“Yes, I used to think I would write between diapers,
like Katherine Paterson once wrote—”
And you could have, and you should have,
and sometimes you did, but mostly you didn’t.
Coward.

“As a writer—” I stop to clear my throat, waiting.
“As a poet—” Yeah, right. It’s so cute that you think that.
“As a woman—” Playing that card, are we?
“As a wife—” Oh boy. You really want to claim that title?
“As a mother—” Yes, yes, you have six kids. Who cares.
“As an image-bearer—” Ohhh, go with that. 
We all know that Christians are more despised than ever
and carry the stench of people who just don’t care—
“—AS A PERSON WHO JUST WANTS TO WRITE,
just let me, please. Just let me.”