becoming the subject of a muse,
merely an object as the muse.
i see the discomfort that comes from
having your story told for you,
displayed without your consent.

i am the director of my own life.
i wrote you out of my script,
so leave your idealized version of me
out of yours.

the unsettlement i feel
to be spoken of so highly,
with a glaze of gold outlying my skin,
stuck to a pedestal.

i am not your trophy,
i will never be your wife!
your version of me
projected through the eyes of obsession.
infatuation.
did you see me as your possession?

and so here it lies.
here lies the irony of making you a muse,
to preach my uttermost desire
to be shed as yours.

my "insensitivity"
isn't stemmed from negativity,
but more so a desire
to think about it logically.

a life without stress
is when i do my best.
and don't take that as     distance,
but my choice
to be  sep ara te.
                          
             independant.

   me, myself, and i
mind, body, and soul.
woven together underneath
the attachment of my surface layer.
hidden from most,
deemed "unreadable."

my "detachment"
a word often describing my
lack of attention-
is not a reflection
of my affection,
or a distraction
from my emotions,
but a reflection
taking place of a reaction.

my "cold heart"
is not the polar
to a warm heart.
it is simply the polar
to a fiery heart,
but it burns
just as fiercely.

we grow wiser with age.
so teach me-
reveal to me your knowledge.
three hundred rings my elder,
what have you seen?
what have you heard?
you stand strong
through all you’ve experienced.
teach me to stand the same.

speak to me,
i'm listening.

insatiable thirst,
i drank from the garden of Eden.
Lu s t,

gulping for air as the water drowns me.
eyes fluttering
sinking into darkness.

was it worth it?
betrayal to Him?
betrayal to Self?

in a moment of intoxication;
a moment of weakness.
i broke a promise to myself.
a promise i've made to you
a hundred times before.
never again becomes
always again.
this is the last time, please                            promise me that.

you know me better than i do
and you know i can't say no,
never to you.
i need an escape,
but how do i get away?
                                                           ­             you won't let me go.
my promises become a reaction,
or better yet-
a threat.
a weak one at that.
it's not about the promises you make;
but how well you keep them.
and i've kept mine,
as well as you've kept                                             away.

when will i stop
making playlists about you?
writing poetry about you?

when i realize
         there is no you.
there was you.

and when you were you,
i wasn't me.

so really,
our love no longer exists.
          we no longer exist.

and now-
now i feel myself letting you go.

infatuation is a funny thing.
it doesn't rhyme with love,
but it sure sounds a lot like it.
ideallic,
surreal,
mostly because it isn't.

silly girl,
you didn't see
what was right in front of you.
you saw imagination.
you saw perfection.
life isn't Barbie,
and he isn't Ken.

don't be fooled by the fantasies
inside your head.
the mind is a universe of its own.
unexplored,
full of wonder and surprise.
trickery and demise.
seek out what is real,
and decipher what is not.