Most people don’t know this, but I have an actual muse. Not a real person in my life that I draw inspiration from, but an actual ethereal being that appears and brings me writing. I know, you now think I am in need of medication, and maybe I am, but that doesn’t change the fact that for years now she has been coming to me ( of course, it has to be a she) and she is the source. She is small, maybe five feet tall, red haired, but the red-orange of autumn leaves, that exact shade. She has green apple candy eyes and exactly two hundred and thirteen freckles forming a perfect constellation upon her cheeks, the bridge of her nose and down her shoulders. She wears a deep purple frock coat and purple and green striped stockings. Her breathe smells of apples and her skin smells of woodsmoke. She appears on rooftops, sitting upon lamp posts, tangled in tree branches, under dusky moons. She whispers and teases, puts her fingers spread over my eyes so that the world appears different and I see where the words should go, she points to couples kissing and when I follow her finger I see their stories in the rumples and creases. She is strange, she is mad and she is fickle. She pours words like honeyed mead down my throat till I am sticky with stanzas then kisses me and breathes them all back. She will not visit me for days, weeks, months and then comes back with her hair mussed, face flushed, someone else’s honey on her lips, someone else’s cum dripping down her thigh, yet she will never touch me that way, she just teases, brings me priapic and leaves me again to write out my moans and sighs. I fear the day she might actually let me touch even the hem of her coat, because deep down I know if I enter the glistening of her arms I will not rise up again, there is death in her lovemaking and her teeth are wicked sharp,almost as sharp as her lips and just as hungry. She lives wild and pure, the flame and the dark, hat you really should be afraid of when you walk alone at night. She is real and this is all one hundred percent true. I have a muse and one day, when she is done with me, when all of the words have been rung from my ragged bones and my voice is the whisper of dust running through her old crone hands (she is ageless, so maiden, mother, crone all in one) she will kill me, she will turn the agony of her love upon me and consume me to less than ash and will blow me out like so many kisses upon the summer evening wind. I mean every last word of this and if it means I am mad that I see a red headed girl on doorsteps that will one day eat my soul like a wicked, so very wicked stepmother eats an apple then so be it, I am mad but thus is a perfectly true fact about me. Pray you don’t start seeing her too.


One Response to “Muse”

  1. Excellent. Perhaps she is like a nightmare we run from, but in actuality only our subconscious trying to get us to pay attention.

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