There’s something weirdly bittersweet about being sad. It’s just the fact that all your thoughts seem to be more passionate and clear when you’re sad. As if the tears washed away all of the dust and revealed strangely beautiful thoughts under it all.

I need a muse, will you be my muse? Will you be the words I write, hoping one day you’ll read them over my shoulder, tears welling up beneath your eyelids. Saying, “Baby, I never knew you loved me that much.” Will you be my muse? All you have to do is exist. Just make me feel, feel like every bone in my body has softened, like buttery caramel in your warm palm. All you have to do is break my heart, maybe once, twice, ten times. Or you could love me. But nobody seems to enjoy that. Make me feel. Make me feel. Be my muse, please. Give me something to say. I need a muse. Say you’ll be my muse. Tell me you’ll stay.