My Muse Returns to Torment Me
Dear Muse,
I woke up thinking about you. Again. Even in my dreams, I trace our memories with the fingertips of my subconscious. My journals have memorised each syllable of your name, but I buried you a long time ago. I taught myself how to forget you and how to stop searching for liberation in your lips. With every dig, the shovel recited every cruelty you inflicted on me. With every dig, I buried my love for you.
It seems that you have returned to crucify me. I am the sacrificial lamb needed for your healing. As you pierced my left hand, you whispered apologies that I would have needed before your burial. As you pierced my right hand, you recited poems I had been praying for. I am still waiting for the third day. On my tomb you will find proof of all the days I waited for you.
Despite it all, I still find myself searching for you. My heart is a door that never closes. My mind sugarcoats you as a kind memory, someone I could learn from. Someone I could write about. Someone I could turn into my Muse. I think my body is addicted to your rhythm and the way hearing your name immediately brings me to writing. The audience laughs at the predictability of our performance. I worship you and you leave.
Maybe it’s the ‘Christ’ in my name that makes me so forgiving. So willing to ignore all the witnesses to my pain. You described me as a sun that never stops burning, but you are the moon I have tried to stop chasing. Whilst I learn how to close the door of my heart, I pray you do not return to open it, because I fear we will eclipse again.