Misfortunate Muse

My mind has romanticized you into a person I know you cannot possibly be.

With my weedy words,

I have made you immortal.

A feat I know you are so undeserving of,

and yet even now,

I continue on this path of immortality.

Canonizing yet again another mediocre man.

Mediocre mind.

My mind continues to play tricks on me.

And in the early hours of twilight,

you creep,

silently,

into my dreams through a back-door passage.

One that has not been used for some time but remains forever open

so that someday,

some unworthy vigilante like yourself,

may stumble across it and vandalize my heart once more.

You dip your hands into me, into the most secrets parts of me.

To find me,

the real me,

you wander to places I am still too afraid to visit.

With this unwarranted feeling of ownership,

you begin to mould me.

Dipping your hands in my heart.

Moving them about in a way that makes me sick to the stomach.

You sit back,

contemplating.

You take me in,

and it begins.

Moving like an artist,

like someone who has done it a million times before,

you slowly change me.

Carefully,

with spray can in hand,

you decorate my mind with a brilliant shade of blue.

I have become a living exhibition.

People line up for hours to stare in wonder at your creation.

Your masterpiece.

Before me, you were nothing, and I was everything.

Tightly your paint-smeared hands grip my neck.

The desperation on your face clear as it is on mine.

Does it terrify you to know that without me,

you are invisible.

Once was, and would have always been,

if it were not for your impeccable timing.

Sometimes the wrong person comes along at precisely the right time.

What colour will you paint me today,

I wonder.