Writers Jam

You play with fire, you get burned.

But why exactly am I writing down age-old cliches in the middle of the night?

I didn’t know then, but being set on fire is a flavor of love too. There are two stories here too. One of the one that got away. The other, of the one whose essence is etched into my being.

The muse reveals herself first in the shape of an external form - her ethereal beauty, the death of your ego - before showing up as an echo in your bloodstream. Before revealing herself as the melodic beat of your own heart rattling every bone in your ribcage. The magic goes where the muse goes. The muse goes where her truth is liberated, her rage is worshipped, her soul is seduced with safety to be seen.

I used to be the guy who tried too hard, who tried to do it all. Now I lay in my daybed, Oxycodon in my veins, no thing to do but to trace my fingertips along her spine. Her crescent smile, an invitation to shed this old skin. To instead live inside hers for a little while. To lose my sanity somewhere between her thighs. To let my shame make love to her pain all night long. Then, fear strikes like thunder. 

What if you like it too much? What if there’s no going back? How far would you go? What all would you destroy with delightful abandon?

Try to edit your own expression & she’s gone. She only opens herself up to ones who carry devotion in their hearts. Who bare every mask they wear, until nothing but the truth is left. Who aren’t interested in possessing her or showing her off like a trophy. She comes for the ones who have the audacity to dance with the darkness, to smile in the face of their own erotic nature & who put the pen in the hands of the heart instead of mind.