Ghost Muse
(or "Riddick's Girl")
He comes to me at night.
Lights out. That's his cue.
In the bed beside me, says he wants sex, I know better.
Just a tool to persuade me. that's not why he wants my body
It's my eyes, my hands, my voice.
Wants me to speak for him.
He scares me. Always has. The darkness inside.
Is it his or mine?
The dreams of blood and violence,
the screams...
his or mine?
Shrieks and thrills
him or me?
I don't like these dreams
but I do.
It's his breath on my neck
the soft slip of fingers
crooning.
That touch
his look, his eyes,
the way he smells
all in focus - surreality crossing the veil
My fictions, his dreams
where is that line...
If I don't tell his stories they live in my head
washes of red and silver and pain
dragged through my lungs, scraping my brain
pinpricks and razors
and that constant ache for freedom
Lance the wound
let his vitriol and scattershot penetrate the word
share the demon dreams
let the blood dry on the page
and he's satisfied. For now.
Predator in my bed.
My head.
Kisses me and calls me 'good girl.'
Slides the knife under my pillow as he cradles me
whispers 'my love'
and sleeps for a while.
That's it. Just a short poem. A drunken keening one night.
My muse is brutal when he skinwalks as Riddick.
I'm trying to work on my stories... really. But he left me for a long time.
I just post this for people who have me favorited and reviewed... because I do appreciate it.
Apparently, he likes NyQuil. Because he's been in my dreams again.
No. I won't explain that.
Ciao.