If I were not a person who dealt in words
the same way others dealt in currency
(or maths
or measures
or facts
or any number of infinitely more practical things)

If I were not a person who breathed in the flow of letters against pages
and thoughts against spaces

I would never love an artist

because no matter the medium of the life
cra
wl
in
g
beneath their skin

No matter if they hear notes in the flip of her hair
(or paint galaxies of the breath against her cheeks
or create worlds hinged on his fallen eyelash
or build monuments to his unguarded laughter
or sway to whatever melody her eyes serenade beyond flickering boredom)

no matter the medium they substitute for the oxygen they inhale
Their hearts
do not exist
—cannot—
outside of the muse they substitute
to pump their passions through their veins

And if I were not a person who dwelt between the strokes of the letters
and devoured the length of meters

I would never love an artist

because their lives are forever forfeit to their muse
sold, clapped in heavy irons
to a desert oasis you cannot reach
because you cannot be his muse, if he has notched you onto his belt

For an artist would never endanger his muse, no matter if he loved her
(or worshipped her
or tortured her
or reveled in her
or whatever multiple definition love has contracted)

If I were not a person who knew the woes of seeing more
than what the world might first offer

But I am.
And I understand.

And I would never love an artist

For I belong to my muse and so does he
and She demands
that no competition come from the love
She allows me
outside Her chamber doors
and an artist's brilliance is competition indeed

And I can only ever love an artist
who
might
forgive
And who might understand
If I told her she is my muse no longer

The girl eats me.
She eats my hands.
She starts with the fingers,
and she's quick to the wrist.

The girl beats me.
I can't point to my assailant.
I can't count the days.
She's still at large.

The girl eats me and eats me.
She eats my hands in four bites,
but it takes nine for my face.
She moves like a woodpecker.

The girl beats me and beats me.
I'm too embarrassed to say anything.
I tell my friends that I
fell down the stairs; so clumsy.

The girl eats me and eats me, again.
She chews her food very well.
I cry every time I think about
those teeth and that tongue.

The girl beats me and beats me, again.
Hey take it easy...
One of these days
your really gonna hurt me.