by Haven Hawkins
Always the hand that writes never the story told
I wonder what it’s like to be someone’s muse. Someone’s reason to breathe, reason to speak, reason to dream. What would it be like to inspire rather than delude?
I’m always the writer never the story, and part of me is comfortable with that. To be a story would be to mean that I was either a great but fleeting love or the hurt that inspires their craft. I don’t want to be an epic but fleeting love or the knife that cuts deep enough to cause the heart to bleed ink.
All of my great muses were once epics that I drowned to be in their presence. Each moment spent with them was never wasted tears, even as they brought them to my cheeks. They were the welcomed pain; I would harbor again. Part of me is addicted to drowning. Because I know the person that ends up washed up in the shore is someone new.
She sees the world differently and writes with a new purpose. She changes and evolves into something beautiful.
She in herself writes the stories of her triumphs through her scars. Paints her future with her tear-filled paints while trying to understand her past with her merciless mind. She is the reincarnation of a tragedy that is never finished but an epic that will never see the final bow. She in herself is the muse and story I never knew I inspired.
