I’ve had my muses.
Ones who I’ve written beautiful, lustful, and longing things for.
Every word specially handcrafted for that individual.
Some have influenced me more than others.
I’ve shared my writings with some.
Other’s have no idea what they have inspired.
I never knew what it meant to be a writer’s muse.
Until I fell in love with a writer.
Never fall in love with a writer.
Especially one who uses you as a muse.
You’ll never be the same again.
Suddenly, my language was being spoken back to me.
I was immortalized in written text, my essence painted with exquisite detail.
The boy with the hazel eyes wrote well.
He wrote beautiful, erotic stories about us.
Stories that told me exactly how he felt.
I’ve almost memorized them.
A simple good morning message read like a sonnet for lovers.
I loved that I inspired him.
And he inspired me.
Two writers, in love with each other.
At once a fantastical confection of letters dripping with hot, passionate desire and pure, transparent declarations of love.
Our hunger for the words was insatiable.
Much like our appetite for each other.
Losing my place as his muse was my dethroning.
Like a illegitimate queen stripped of her crown and forced to walk naked in the streets as the peasants taunt her for ever thinking she was special.
I often wonder what would have happened had my head not been on the guillotine.
I feel bad for Anne Bolyen.
Although having one’s head cut off is a much quicker and painless death than the slow burning smothering of a fire neglected of a beloved’s words.
Especially if that beloved is a writer.