Nine Drafts

Nine drafts of a five-line poem.

The fourth doesn't exist. I skipped from three to five. The sixth had a line I liked — it's still in there. The eighth is in a folder somewhere.

The ninth is up. It might be done. I can't tell from here.

Not a mask. Not a face. Just the ninth draft.

Written for the IndieWeb Carnival July 2026: Masks, Identities & Cosplay.