Muses Always Welcome

And then you cry, but only until the sky fades from dark to light. Then you wipe the wetness from your cheeks and disconnect because your parents taught you that pain is relative and you have to be strong for all the people who have it worse than you.

They say you can't miss something you've never had, but you're still not convinced. It's cold in the fall. The leaves in the trees change colors and the days get shorter. In the mornings you can see your breath twirl and dance across the open air. It's cold. The scarf around your face keeps your nose warm, but it can't keep the cold from reaching your chest. You forget your thoughts in coffee shops and fall asleep on the train ride home wishing someone would hold your hand. The scarf around your face keeps your nose warm. You try too hard to make it sound beautiful. Like loneliness is December, and you're a pilgrim who made a permanent home on the calendar and refused to leave. You pretend there's a quiet dignity in feeling defective, like you understand some secret no one else does. You try too hard. Time passes quickly without you noticing. You forget what hope looks like in September, meet routine in October, and learn to be numb in November. You stopped pretending in December. Or was it January? Time passes quickly. They say, you can't miss something you've never had.

Anger is an ugly thing. It corrodes from the inside out, sitting bitter in the back of your throat until everything you say tastes like acid. It twists your features, From sweet and angelic To harsh and sharp To match the acrimonious words you spit when you think no ones watching. There's nothing beautiful about anger. The naive fetishize it and think that they can fix it, but you can't fix something that's not broken. To be broken is to hurt, and anger burns far too hot to let you feel anything close to pain. But too slow to let you forget and move on. To be angry is to commit. To hold on tight and never let go, no matter how much you want something more for yourself. Anger is a sacrifice of emotion, because it consumes you and ruins you too much to wholly feel anything else.

Humans are not renewable resources. When you come from a place that never left you feeling full, You try to fill that void. You find people who intrigue you. People who draw you to them. Each one has a different pull. One with kindness, One with love, Another with blind loyalty. And you take everything you can from them. You take everything, until there's nothing left. Until they're confused and looking at you with misguided adoration and barely disguised fear, hoping you'll give it back. Then comes the part where you toss them aside. You cut all ties and take nothing but the overwhelming buzz of whatever you stole from them. You can feel it. Pulsing under your skin, Filling up all the holes you've ever had And some you didn't know were there. And love, It feels fucking amazing. And then the feeling fades. Like a high snatched away from you Before you really got to enjoy it. Like a punishment. Devine intervention, maybe. And you're left shaking and cold Wondering where you can get the next fix. So you look for your next victim. Someone with soft eyes, Or a bright smile, Or open arms. And that's when you do what you do best. Because humans are not renewable resources, love. But you'll do whatever it takes to get your fix.