A Letter to My Muse

—
2021

I am writing to you after months of silence, hypocrisy and misunderstanding just to let you know that I still think about you.

Now I know, death will come and it will have your shoulders, your eyes, your lips, your hands, your voice, your walk, your facial expressions, your everything.

With the taste of ecstasy on the tongue, with the sleepy glance, with cum on a black t-shirt. I will accept this gift: the end of the cycle. Let me not be devoured by this horror called age, let me not be a victim of time. The best thing you can do for me is to leave me forever young in your memory and give me to the endless universe. Don’t let me dry up like a lilac branch, you made me yours, you made me y-o-u-r-s.

Primo, deuxio, tertio... You danced with my demons twelve times, but the thirteenth dance (the last one) is mine and the moon is hiding from us under the clouds. I’ll let you do anything. Do to me all that I have not dared to do to myself (you know I’ve dared to do so many things). My body is here and it's all a battlefield. You have the right to fuck me while I'm out of control, put out cigarettes on me, crucify me like a savior or make me your enemy, but don’t leave me somewhere behind, that’s the only thing I can’t stand. I’ll smash my head against the wall trying to scrape some feelings out of you just to know that you've ever felt anything to me. I’m screaming out my pain. You laugh, you fuck another stranger, you got only dicks in your head, but there’re more important things in this life than lust. You have no idea, because the depth of your mind is far inferior to the depth of your throat. I bet you can fit a gun down there, so why didn’t I kill you on the Christmas Eve? I’m tired of thinking of you. I hate that my head is covered with a scarlet patched veil of feelings for so long, but this fleeting blindness is getting over. Next time - if there’s a next time - I’ll go eat dirt right away, now I’m drawing on the wrists a long-awaited happy end.