My Muse?

“I will not help you,”
she said.
“You dangle too much
on the edge of reality
and hope
that I’m much too aware
of your stupid means.”

But I already knew I was stupid.
Isn’t that why
I couldn’t write tonight?

But then again,
I never meant her
any pink offenses.
Even if what I really wanted
was a good horror story
with monsters
rimmed with black eyes
and lipless teeth.

Maybe I’ll watch someone else
get scared for once.

I don’t need your help.

Though I really do.
That’s just what I wish
I could say.

But she’s fickle
and stays in a cozy corner
of an old trailer
with walls made
of stars
and late night talks
with grandma,
about how I’ve been telling myself
a story
ever since I was three,
and that I didn’t think
it would ever end.

Grandma didn’t believe me.

And her,
what some would call ‘a muse’
still waits there,
curled up where it’s safe
and doesn’t care to come out
if I’m, as she says,
‘dangling on the edge of reality.’

She doesn’t deal in reality
after all.

Those pink offenses.

One pink slip,
and I couldn’t go
with the rest of the class
to the water park.

But I didn’t want to tell
about the pink,
I meant to tell about
the black
the green
the yellow gums.

Don’t you remember that?

“I’m staying here,” she says.

stars wall her in,
and she flies
in her sleep.

Oh well.
Maybe she will help
tomorrow.

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