When I succumb to his advances, I weep in orgasmic ecstasy at the expression of truth in it's purest form, but I have always paid a price for the sweet drug he gives me. His half-year visits always end the same, with a completed book and my soul sliced open by an ice cold razor blade. When the final morning comes, I send him away, vowing to never allow him in my head again.
But then, when I least expect it, he sneaks back into my bed and weaves his thoughts into my mind. His soothing whispers fill my dreams. "Write....write..." Before I realize it is him, he has already ensnared me in his arms like a python coils around it's prey, squeezing me tighter and tighter in what at first felt like a protective shield, but was in fact a mirror I no longer want to see. His squeeze is deadly but I love feeling him near. I wake up tired, longing to sleep again, to feel myself in the arms of the one who makes me face my inner truths in the most painful way possible.
He is my muse, my guardian, my angel and this time I am refusing his advances. He wants me to write...so I will write, only about him.
Causes Courtney Filigenzi Supports
American Cancer Society
Army of Women