Muses

You're a warped kind of muse. You tear me up and make me doubt myself, convince me alternately that romance trumps logic and that logic reigns supreme. You hold me close and comfort hurts inflicted by others and then throw my trust against the nearest wall, saying that you'll fix it even as we watch the yolk stain the sidewalk. You clarify me and you confound me.

Who said that muses lived on Mt. Olympus? Your house looks a lot like mine.

There are some weeks when I'm flying on the updrafts of your attention and some when I can do little more than lock myself away so no one (especially not you) will see me cry. But the vast majority of the year(s), I regard you with a cynical indifference, a contempt for myself regarding you that is easily misinterpreted if you don't live in my head (and even if you do).

You're usually the first person I turn to when things go seriously wrong.

Maybe all the rest is okay, then. (What lies I tell myself.) No one ever claimed that muses were always good and kind and constant.

We always just rather assumed.