Muse

I've decided to try something new;
In the face of this sweltering summer heat,
I'm going to give her wings and let her fly.
She's always wanted to be free ... So consider this the breaking of shakles.

She tells tales.
Tattles even - making a mockery of my attempts of teetotalism
"Stop fooling yourself" she says ... You know your poison - now love it
-Love it the way you love me, with your deft touch and messy cursive.

She says things I wouldn't - She sees through me
The true me ... The one the public only glimpses when I'm doing something I'm passionate about.
-Passions only seen when I'm doing someone.
What does she do with this knowledge?

Nothing.
I think that's the slap to the face really.
My idiosyncratic nature means nothing to her. She's one woman who'll never give a damn about it.
She's seen it all.

So she presents herself as a vessel - to carry the voice of men.
I can't be jealous, she was here before me.
She'll be here after I leave.
So I'll be her muse - taking solace in the fact that I amuse her.

Maybe I pique her interest with the words I write.
Maybe it's my thoughts that get to her.
She could just be stringing me along, like a pathologically narcissistic bitch.
But eh? Worse things have happened.