My muse chose me, and her name is the blood red muse. In the annals of history, a muse inspires art and is a singular figure. My muse, the blood red muse, is a soul that hides behind the eyes of those I choose against my will. Its a great irony of life that who we love and who we choose are not necessarily the same. Its here in this space of irony that I find my words I put to paper.
She appears attached to individuals, and when I see her familiar scars I know she is near. She moves with grace through their life, creating mistrust, loneliness, emptiness and suffering all around them. She casts a spell of protection on her new wards, inspiring them to trust her but to love only her.
The blood muse appears to them at their lowest point and rebuilds them. She haphazardly glues back the broken pieces in her own image. She wraps them in an invisible cocoon to protect them, cutting off their ability to connect to others. She teaches them to find happiness in chaos, meaning in despair, and truth in unanswered questions. Broken vessels once filled with hope, she gives them dreams to crash them on her rocky shores.
It is my muse I’m in love with, and the people she touches is who I choose. In their voice I hear her whispering, in their touch her heartbeat. She taunts me when they leave, and tosses another of her pack into my path to lay waste to my happiness. Ever pacing in the background of every conversation, yanking the chain of her new pets if they dare get to close.
Then in the vacuums of her presence, I create words, because it is for her that I write and because of her I dream. So I sit here waiting for her to reappear behind the eyes of another, powerless to her timing. Knowing she is out there preparing the next one, rebuilding the broken pieces, driving them towards me. This is how I know my muse loves me too, because she sends them to me. Broken, untrusting and in pain they will find me; she finds me.