PARASITE

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.