Archive for the ‘Muses Overworked’ Category

March 3, 2013

It hits the ground with a finality I didn’t know could exist.

The residual flames burn amber against the grit.

Your eyes trail my every move.

Those eyes.

The damn eyes that linger in my mind like a scalding touch on an ice cold skin.

It’s a dance.

A dance we’ve danced since the day we met.

The freight of being caught only heightened the attraction.

We used it, reveled in it.

And to think it began as a game. A challenge.

Nothing more than an exciting play.

But things turned real too soon.

A little too fucking real.

A little too fucking scary.

Clasped hands and stolen kisses and pressed bodies.

The secrets, the lies, the cloak and dagger, it let doubt cast its shadow over us.

A doubt that brings nothing but pain.

A pain that ultimately leads us.. away from one another.

In the game of secrets and seduction there is only one rule; Don’t fall in love.

And at the end of it, it all leaves us nothing but.. strangers.

“I love you also means I love you more than anyone loves you, or has loved you, or will love you, and also, I love you in a way that no one loves you, or has loved you, or will love you, and also, I love you in a way that I love no one else, and never have loved anyone else, and never will love anyone else.”
Jonathan Safran Foer


April 27, 2012

And I swore in that moment I wanted you dead. In the most selfish, self satisfying, if I can’t have you no one can kind of way.

“You know that when I hate you, it is because I love you to a point of passion that unhinges my soul.”
Julie de Lespinasse

April 17, 2012

“There’s something about you that’s just so..” he starts saying.

And she braces herself for another one of his little persnickety, passive aggressive outburst, except he seemed to be deep in thought.

His eyes searched the ground fruitlessly and a little crease formed on his forehead, as if he has the words just on the edge of his tongue but they just weren’t forming on his lips.

That’s a first.

“Incessant?” she suggests, like a child offering an unsure answer in class.

“Irritating?” she takes a step toward him as his gaze flickers back up.

“Exasperating? Fundamentally annoying? I could go on,”

“Disarming,” he decides with a smile, “It’s unnerving,” he continued, voice light yet teeming with sincerity.

It takes her a while to realize he isn’t teasing and the implications throw her completely off. She bites down on her lower lip, trying to shield the smile that was slowly creeping in.

“Careful there,” she warns before turning around to take a step away from what felt like dangerous territory.


“You just said something about me that doesn’t fall into the negative category,” she turns back around to find his towering form just behind her.

“As a matter of fact, it was positively in a neutral light, and you need to be very careful when you do that,” she continued, although the closeness was unnerving her, “The sky could fall down,”

“You know when sometimes you meet someone so beautiful and then you actually talk to them and five minutes later they’re as dull as a brick? Then there’s other people, when you meet them you think, ‘Not bad. They’re okay.’ And then you get to know them and… and their face just sort of becomes them. Like their personality’s written all over it. And they just turn into something so beautiful.”
Amelia Pond, Doctor Who Ep#6.10: The Girl Who Waited

It’s You.
March 23, 2012

It’s the taste of whiskey and coke, the trail of smoke upon your breath.
It’s the reckless abandon, the fleeting moment, the plunge of thought into sweet death.

It’s the exhilarating pain, the intoxicating pleasure, the bitter refusal of defeat.
It’s the heavy breaths, the spreading warmth, the rise and fall beneath the sheets.

It’s the lingering sidelong glance, the shivers up my spine.
It’s the willowy touch of wisp and smoke, the way we intertwined.

It’s a kiss, long and lingering, the breaking point, the edge of desire.
It’s you.
The way you make me feel, the way you make me remember.

Distractions, Distractions.
November 18, 2011

“Because I come here, in the middle of the night, in my pyjamas and you haven’t even tried to kiss me. Not once. If you really meant that, I’d be slapping your hands away from me,”

“Or maybe, just hear me out here,” he made a gesture to quiet her as she opened her mouth to protest, “Maybe I’ve come to realize that you’re not someone who’s going to stand any of my crap, and that I’m crazy enough about you to get my shit together and be mature enough to exercise extreme and incredible amounts of self control to respect you instead of just chasing after cheap thrills,”

The moment was painfully perfect. Rife, teeming, and an echoing reminder of all the reasons they would never work. But that’s exactly what it needed to be. Maybe for a while, and maybe for always. But they love each other. And it was obvious to everyone but them.

She breaks away from his gaze and becomes particularly interested in her fingers, playing with them absentmindedly.

And he just can’t. He can’t touch her, can’t flirt with her, can’t tease her the way he used to. Because she’s off limits now. He cannot have her. He cannot even want to have her. Because it would be so wrong. For so many reasons.

“So how fare me in the art of cheering the lady up?” he breaks the silence.

“You’re doing okay,” she shrugs.

“If I were, you’d be happier by now,”

She looks up at him with a genuine smile.

“I am happy,”

And she really is. She may not be okay, but she’s happy. And it’s beautiful moment because he makes her smile. Easily. And everything seems a little bit okay even if it’s not. He takes the weight off her shoulders and she finds it easier to breathe, if only for a while, in his presence.

“When you are attracted to people, it’s because of the details. Their kindness. Their eyes. The fact that they can get you to laugh when you need it the most.”
Jodi Picoult, Sing You Home

September 22, 2011

He turned to face me, his face was contorted into lines of anger and distaste – nostril flaring, jaw tight, eyes glaring holes into mine, hand by his side clenched into a tight fist – as though it was taking all his self control not to hurt me. As though it took each fibre of his being to not to spit out every damned thing, every fault, every fleck, each fleeting thought that had ever crossed his mind about me, crushing me in entirety down to the core.

His smouldering gaze bore holes into mine and I felt myself shrinking under his painfully penetrating stare. I felt more than a little guilty that something this unexpectedly stupid could hit us at just the wrong moment and screw things up so exponentially and so wholly so quickly.

He wanted to scream and yell at me, I could tell, he perhaps even – and I cringed as the thought flashed into my mind for a millisecond – wanted to hit me. But he was refraining himself, his body frozen and in utter icy control. Perhaps he was afraid of over-reacting, perhaps he was afraid of how I would react to his reaction, or perhaps – and I cringed again at the thought of it – he was afraid of himself. And what he could do.

Who could have guessed that everything was so much more complicated than it seemed? That all along, when I thought I had knew what was happening, there was so much more, just simmering below the surface. And I had less than skimmed the surface.

I opened my mouth but no words would come. The unspoken statement died at my lips before my brain could form them. And at that, something flashed in his eyes and I thought that had been enough to send him over the edge. That he’d snapped and was going to lash out any second with words like knives carrying all the rage in his eyes at that moment.

But he didn’t.

No, he was better than that.

He turned from me mechanically. And left.

“Bitterness is like cancer. It eats upon the host. But anger is like fire. It burns it all clean.”
Maya Angelou 

August 25, 2011

I like the way you walk.

Scratch that. I really like the way you walk.

More than your mega watt, super charming, turn knees into jelly smile. More than your hair. More than your sense of humor. More than your quick quips and disagreeableness in every little banter.

Okay maybe not the last part. But I really do like your walk.

Because some people walk around with their shoulders all hunched up and looking at the floor. And some people shuffle their feet with a light breeze of cool. Others walk without looking where they’re going, their noses in the sky so high.

But you. You walk around like you’re slightly drunk. You kind of, stumble along, with a hint of lofty and a splash of confidence.

You walk like you’re ready to take on whatever crap that’s going to come flying your way because you know you’ll take it on, heads on, guns blazing, and win. Because you know that you’re just that brilliant. All intelligent, and eloquent, and funny, and charming, and oh so sexy.

Or at least that’s what you think.

“The thing about me, is I really wanna let you,
Open that door and walk into my life.
Marié Digby, Say it Again.

February 19, 2011

Cafuné []
-verb (Brazilian/Portugese)
The act of  tenderly running one’s fingers through someone’s hair.

Not Before.
December 15, 2010

Breathe. Force the damned oxygen into your lungs. Breathe deeper.

You’re flailing. Too obvious. Gasping. Even breaths. Long calm even breaths. Better.

Blink. Suppress the urge to clamp your eyes shut and implode. Flatten the desire to feel.

Ignore the scrutinizing looks, blank stares, questioning eyes. Blink again. Slowly. Deliberately. Defiantly.

Swallow. Command the knot in your throat that makes your eyes water and your stomach churn, away.

Swallow again. Easier. Better.

Purse your lips. Lightly.

Smile. Curve the lips upwards naturally. Make them reach your eyes. Make them real.

Keep the smile. Stop clenching your jaw. You are not in pain.

Make eye contact. Don’t drop your gaze.

Head up. Don’t let your hands shake. Don’t let your voice break.

Talk. Laugh. Make appropriate noises. Don’t say what you feel. Don’t feel.

Smile. Keep smiling. Laugh.

Don’t mention it. Don’t bring it up. Don’t let it even slip out should the topic arise.

You’re fine.

All is well.

You. Are. Fine.

Lie. Pretend. Dance. Dance the dance of illusions.

Fine and Dandy. Everything is Fine and Dandy.

Focus. Focus on something. Anything.




But don’t feel.

Don’t think about it. Don’t mention it. Don’t bring it up.

Just smile. Always smile. Don’t let it falter.

Smile and don’t feel.

Breathe. Move along. Not a glance backwards.

Move your feet. Slower. Walk. Running’s too obvious.

Breathe. Breathe deeper.

The gnawing pain in your chest is nothing.


The fire burning at the back of your eyelids is ignorable.


The clump in your throat doesn’t bother you.


Concentrate on your feet. It isn’t hard moving along at all. Right foot in front of left. Left foot in front of right. Repeat.

You’re moving. You’re walking. Don’t look back.

Smile. Don’t let that fade. Smile.

Breathe. Don’t feel.

Move your feet. Faster.

Until you’re alone. Until the door’s closed.

Then you gasp. And cry. And feel.

But not before.

“Because it’s not true, you can’t pretend to be someone long enough to forget who you are.”

Kinder To Me.
November 12, 2010

I never saw it coming.

I should’ve, but I didn’t.

And it just happened one day.

I turned on the faucet and watched the hot water run.

I would’ve been kinder.

I would’ve been kinder had I not noticed how her hair had begun to look familiar.

How she walked, with the same bored but superior expression on her face.

How each laugh, smile, chuckle, frown, and expression was carved similarly to a tee.

The way she spoke, her intonation, the roll of the tongue, the meticulously chosen words.

The dewy smirk on her face as she flirted, the casual flick of the eyelids as she looked up at her mark, just as I do.

Everything as I do.

I would’ve been kinder if she hadn’t decided to cut her hair like mine and colored it the same.

I would’ve been kinder if she didn’t laugh my laugh, use my words, take my voice.

I would’ve been kinder if she didn’t wear my fucking clothes, skin and face.

I stare away from the water and make out my reflection on the fogged up mirror.

What the fuck do you think you’re doing?

She cowered as I look at her.

I kept looking, looking.

Her eyes wide, fearful and guilty, and she fumbled.

Fumble rumble tumble, dear, fumble rumble tumble.

The replica of me began to melt and her expression becomes her own again.

My nails dug into her flesh and I‘m certain it hurt I had her arm gripped so tight.

Let go.

She tugged at her arm.

Let go let go let go.

I let my nails dig deeper, harder, tighter.

I would’ve been kinder.

I would have listened as she cried and whimpered.

I would have loosened my grip on her beating heart.

I would’ve let her walk away with a limp instead of a bullet hole.

I would’ve even respected her if she had tried for a coup d’état.

But she decided to become me.

Well, something’s gotta give.

I smiled in satisfaction and place my bloodstained hands under the hot running water.

“It will have blood, they say; blood will have blood. Stones have been known to move, and trees to speak.”
William Shakespeare (Macbeth, Act III Scene IV).