I eye the legend that had him last,
her face refracting in prisms in my mind.
I see her. See her. Her.
She paints her skin with gilt and wine.
Colors foreign to the flesh.
His hands on those cheeks.
Gold. Chrome. Glitter. Black. Dusty. Palms.
Untying threads. Cream Grecian gown.
Metallic bandeau. Black party dress.
All coming undone in his gentle-hungry hands.
Unraveling into lace baring her dancer’s body.
Lace peeling off in the dance.
The delicate frame the star and the stage.
His splindly fingers brush through her hair hair hair.
Caught in the flames of
the wildfire mane. Crab trapped in the net.
Lured to a glow. Glint on her lips and in her hungry eyes…
Devoured by it.
She holds all his secrets. Sins. She judged and ravished him.
He calls the siren muse.
If I were a mythic creature I could quiet him.
I am not a mythic creature.
He does not hear my breaking voice.
He does not touch my raw skin.
He does not run his fingers through my mousy hair.
He does not trace over the folds of my stomach.
He knows that I am frail and human.
Waning slowly, I am no one’s muse.