she sits in the corner of the bar, black hair
falling thickly around her angelic face and lipstick smudged around her
thick alcohol drenched lips. her dark eyes beckon to you, her tongue
flickering out nervously, bringing out images of forbidden trees and leaf
covered skin.
"muse for hire." she whispers when she is certain you are close enough to
hear. her voice is the same sound a finger makes as it curiously caresses a
crack in glass, leaving a new trail of blood to color it's imperfection.
she tells you that her previous master had grown tired of her, of her
obsession with the past. her inability to tell things of tomorrow. her
undefined emotion, her vague and overly pretty words.
"i only have pretty words." she murmurs sadly, a trembling finger creating
nervous patterns on the table top. "and the world doesn't need them
anymore."
how about the truth, you ask.
"oh. but what a fragile thing it is. something beyond words or prettiness.
but kiss me now stranger, and you will write of lies dark enough to be true, i promise you. or if it pleases you, of things that were once true and once
alive."
she reaches out a hand, the dim lights shining off of the gaudy time-worn
nail polish. the muse looks at you with eyes bearing a hunger that would
undo the very stars. there are words in her gaze more potent than the cheap
perfume she has doused herself in to hide the sickly sweet scent of her own
decay.you take her hand and draw her against you, murmuring in a voice as
low as hers, let us make our own truth then.
my baby wrote from "she reaches out a hand..."