written is 'the girl' of my muse.
She gets to my ego.
Invokes in me disgust.
Makes me unnecessarily
haughty and unusually
sad as well.
She pampers me,
Hampers me.
Tickles chuckles out of me
till it eventually hurts.
She's dirty, she's witty.
she's always around to be
forever out of reach.
Never arrives upon my
summons, but she does
when I tend to give up.
Does she mistake
indifference for invitation?
I don't know.
My starry-eyed girl,
My moon-soaked beauty.
Slutty nurse at times
who can kill, and a
mallu aunty on the other
who can heal.
She knows every room
inside my head.
Enters and exits anytime
at will. She's an anomaly
in my conscience,
who knows exactly where
to press to keep all my
wounds open.
Undressing my language
down to its bones,
asking me to touch every
word twice,
Slithering through the
wetness of syllables,
She leaves halfway through
a sentence-
Then it takes hours of
coaxing to pull her back.
Keeping her entirety intact
is another full-time job.
But that's what I've
signed up for.
Perhaps that's what a
muse is- A relationship
too complicated, or
perhaps a marriage that's
toxic, but has its perks
if one has enough
metawhorical kinks.