Take every second
of my skin
Rolling beneath your fingertips

Give every breath
of your shine
To the dark empty places within

Hate every one
in a million
Paper cranes creased by unsteady hands

Love every time
the snow falls
Frozen memories intact with every drop

I am so in love
   with the idea of normal
That it is so ******* sick

And you,
   with your shiny, naive smile,
Are the epitome of untainted

And it makes me want to *****
   how desperately
I crave to push you to the edge

To push you as far as I can
   and see
If you will crumble to ashes in my hands

Or perhaps you will trip off the abyss
   and try
To drag me down to hell with you

But hell is the domain
   that I call my own
One I have been praying to sink back into

And I am so in love
   with the idea of normal
And I don't want to say that it isn't you

Because it is you
   with your wonderfully ordinary concerns
None of which have to do with the voices

Private voices
   sweet voices
Incorporeal people I keep locked in my head

These thoughts
   are ones you'll never have
And I am so in love with the idea of normal

That I've been sick dozens of times
   simply from the thought
That I might be in love with you

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