I thought I knew what a muse was until I met him.
I'd been inspired before.
I’d been intrigued.
But I had no idea what a muse was
until he put his pink lips to my neck
and spit parasites into my ears.
Let them climb in and make a home
in the soft tissue of my brain.
Bred
and multiplied
and bit into my mind
till the memories of him opened
like sores
and festered in the heat of my anxiety.
I opened my mouth
and Times New Roman print flew out
like a plague of moths from its depths.
For 48 hours I was hеld captive
by the collegе-ruled lines
of a composition notebook.
Wrapped around my wrists
like the leather-bound work of a dominatrix.
He cracked a whip against my skin
and sliced my flesh open,
scarlet
like the margin taunting me.
The violet bruises on my neck,
my chest,
could hardly compare to the scar
that rose when he petrified me.
He shocked me.
Terrified me.
Because he inspired me.
I wasn't prepared
for the chaos that would follow.
A muse.
A parasite.
A symbiotic relationship.
Feed his hungry mind from my open mouth.