Feed the Muse: Inner Monologues (Vol. I) [√]

[ beware of the impostor ]

You meet the boy. He's the center of attention; a beacon of light wherever he goes, drawing anyone hopeless to his light of a promise, to his new-found glory. But he burns anyone who has the audacity to touch his rays, to bask in his sunlight, to feel his glowing warmth. You are Icarus flying too close to the sun.

You meet the boy. He's the epitome of bliss; with a laugh of a king, echoing through the hollow shell you inhabit. He wakes you up with his voice of gold and platinum, shining in the dark like stars in a sheet of black clouds. But he leads you to the edge of a precipice, with the murky waters a hundred feet below, like an invisible cord pulling at your feet. You find yourself defying gravity and physics.

You meet the boy. He's full of force and life; a breath of fresh air, the thrill of a new adventure, the seduction of doing something reckless. But with all things dangerous comes the pain as he pushes you against the jagged, sharp rocks at your back, like the thorns twisting around a rose, hands on your throat. You choke with his empty promises.

You meet the boy. He's poetry and literature; the Romeo in a mask of bravery and defiance, unafraid of the consequences of his love for you. He is the hero with the white horse who sweeps you off into the sunset, a Shakespearean character in flesh and blood. But he silently carries the gun, aims it at your chest until you surrender your heart in his hands, like a willing sacrifice. You die brutally but so lovely.

You meet the boy. He's the missing parts; the key to a hidden treasure, the map to all the wonders of the world. His hands carry the secrets of the universe itself, his eyes sparkling with a thousand sunrises. But behind the orb of stars in his words, he keeps the hiss of a devilish serpent, bites you with the enticement of forever, like a siren beckoning a sailor ship, with her song of the sea. You drown with a smile on your lips.

You meet the boy. He is the night; the gentle breeze that envelopes your cold shoulders as you hold your sleeves tighter. He is the whisper of the light coming from the fireflies, gleaming in the meadow. His embrace full of warmth and of home. But later he drags you to an alleyway, like those of thieves in movies, slashing you with his blade of prose, stealing the breath from your lungs, leaving you cold and bleeding on the concrete. You paint the road with your blood and love.

Little girl, be more careful as you carry those apples in a basket. He awaits you somewhere, patiently flaming with fake passion, and colorful words that make you weep with ecstasy. You should know that he is not the one for you; he is not meant for anybody.