WORDS FROM THE MUSE
he wrote his grief like it was scripture, pressed his pain into melody and wrote redemption from the bones of my silence.
the world sang along to his suffering of where he broke my heart his hurt declared holy—the muse a mere afterthought
they called him brave and real and true as if truth weren’t a sacred altar he already laid my body across, bleeding me slowly in the name of art.
no one wondered if the muse was breathing, or if the metaphor had a pulse. there was only the echo of his voice explaining me to the world.
but i remember the night he looked at me like a song he could not finish the way he called it love while packing a suitcase full of guilt he swore he couldn’t carry.
he needed the heartbreak to write. and now i live in the ink on his hands, a ghost haunting the chorus, a scar he holds up as if regret is a form of affection
but this time, the silence is mine.
and it does not sound like forgiveness. it sounds like a song he will never be able to sing.
