Muse

She begins it with a burning, a yearning, a small fire. I’ll be seeing a movie, checking my email, sitting in class, driving home or reading a book, and suddenly she’s there: an intrusive demon requiring placation. She rears her head, smiles her sadistic, toothy grin, and will not be buried. She tells me, “Now. The time is now. Do it.”

The beast visits often; I am no longer surprised by the calls. I still try to drive the need away, burying myself amongst the pages of the book I was reading, narrowing my focus back to the film I was watching. I tighten my control each time in a mere attempt to keep her at bay. I always believe my will is stronger than hers, this fiend, this she-devil. It is never so.

She prods me from inside, stroking my brain’s synapses, performing a tap dance on my mental sinews. She writhes against my lungs, causing my heart to palpitate, my breath to come short. She slides her lithesome body inside mine, pressing herself into my veins until she becomes a wet, throbbing part of me. She makes me her marionette; making me dance, her unwilling victim on strings. I cannot ignore her.

Perched in my ear, she implants ideas, stories and images. She creates other lithesome, seductive, bewitching little succubi with my fragmented thoughts and her wretched kisses. Together, these succubi straddle my ankles and bind my wrists with their tongues. They pour poison into me, and the poison always eats its way out. Her words paralyze me as if they were toxins; forcing me to take my hands, use them for her purposes.

I fight her. I tell her, “No! I can’t!” When she has had her way with me, I tell her, “No more. I have no more to give.” She nods her head, smiling again, hissing, “Yes, you have more, and you’ll give more.” She makes me. I give her what she wants.

My she-devil, my beast. My inspiration, my muse.