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.