Muse
She owes me nothing yet in her palm she holds my whole life. I tore out a chunk of my heart for her but there’s no completing what’s already whole. It’s too late to get it back though. It’s not polite either, I wouldn’t want her to return a gift. But now I’m always missing a heartbeat. I thought I’d hear it when I’m close to her but nothing changed in the rhythm. It’s a constant, awkward confusion. Like a jazz band with no chemistry.
What scares me is not the thought of her throwing it away though. What if I never actually gave it to her? I just, dreamed I did it. But I’ve always written down my lucid dreams, yet there’s no mention of it on a single page. Was it just a thought with no intent? Was she never in my subconscious? Is that even love?
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But then where did it go? My flesh is soggy and deformed from all the blood that’s been spilling out of this gaping hole and pooling up at places where it shouldn’t. Every day this grotesque caricature in the mirror reminds me that I’ve lost something. All the words I wrote down and exhausted to call it back were met with a static noise. The trail of crimson it left must’ve also been washed by the downpour.
Or maybe I was born without it. A truth so undeniable that I modeled my whole life around a lie. Around a responsibility that I’ve laid on a woman who’s irreproachable. The person I’ve made my savior, my muse.
But I will keep looking. It’s easier to believe she holds my life in her palm.
