First, start by clawing at the door. Try to break it off the hinges. If you succeed, take your leave and save yourself the trouble. If you fail, stop only if your arms break from the sockets. Now you’ve entered the creative state.
Start by making a skeleton, and slowly watch as you bring her to life. Bone by bone, she looks like everything you’ve ever known. When she asks where her skin is, reassure her. Tell her that her bones are beautiful. Let her rest then make more just like her. Build each with their nuances and love every one of them. They’ll only know how to love you back.
No matter what you say, speak with conviction. Let it blaze through the page. Have people think you’re trying to burn them. There’s no such thing as an insecure poem. People read only to learn and feel, so do both if you can.
Soon one skeleton will grow skin and muscle and tissue. She will be the one who survives. When the first begs you to keep her, remind her that you love her, but life requires more than bones. Remind her that you have the chance to make something real, then apologize that she won’t get to see it. When you erase her, understand that there is nothing worse than destroying something innocent.
She with skin will be beautiful. She will love you the same as them all. Her deep, lovely eyes will look through you and ask you why it was her. The answer you give will be terrible and human and true: that you don’t know. Disappoint her.
When your poetry makes something happen, people will ask for your method and pretend to care. The only two that will know of your slaughter will be her and yourself. Remember this: You have a responsibility to her, but her not one to you. But luckily, she wouldn’t tell a soul. Right?