and/or

I've been trying to tell you how I feel.


I know you think I'm trying to make you love me, but I don't need to be loved. As long as I'm your muse.

I want you to look at me and know that when I inhale 1/2 the world is breathing out and somehow that makes me special.

I want you to look at me and fight back tears.
I want to make you write.
I want to make you scream.
I want to make you sing.

I'm your muse. And that's all that matters because if I'm your muse then you are my voice.

Muses never speak for themselves.
Oh, and watch out, because I'm the end of you.

I'm your muse. And It's all my fault. Because I'm the reason countries drop bombs on innocent towns and I'm the reason artists steal. I'm the one pushing you into Washington D.C. I'm the girl behind the scenes who keeps warm towels in your dressing room. I'm your depression and I am your happiness. I'm yours. All yours. And I'm the one to blame.

Because without me art and love and sex and beauty and everything that makes man kind would be irrelevant.
Without me you would wake up at 6 am for the morning news and put on your suit. Without me you'd be an accountant or a nameless worker on an assembly line.

Without me there would be no poetry.

And I cried, that night. The night you cut my hair. And the texts read, "I'm so sorry," but I'm the one who handed you the scissors.
And I kissed you and my hands found their way to yours.
I gave you the scissors, now cut my damn hair. The moment the metal hit my tangles I began to cry. Cut it off, cut it all off.
And I loved you more in that moment than I ever have before.

Because with one movement of your hands you stripped away my beauty and my appeal and my womanhood and everything mysterious about me. But you kissed me anyway, because you're my love, and I'm your muse.

Cut it all off, dammit.


Esther.