An Ode to Muses to Melpomene

Casualty

It is not love,

Nor is it faking it.

I despise that you pretend to recognize my soul,

While lying to yourself.

I often wonder how this transpired

And if you are a blessing in disguise,

Or a lesson.

I know you as home,

While you think of me as heaven,

Demanding to invade my space,

While I suggest separate bedrooms

And a kitchen with nothing to eat.

Elevators do not work for transporting liquid courage

And you cannot draw daggers on your veins for strength.

It is impossible to rise above the ashes, with clouds of smoke,

Or create life, by making love to death.

You ask how I can see into your third eye.

I navigate your expressions with an omniscient compass

And fail to discard words soaked in beer.

I wonder where you disappear to before I wake up,

Telling me two versions of the same story

Unable to recognize the first draft or final copy.

It is foolish to think we can ever be friends,

As you refuse to speak with me when the bed frame is closed,

Only when my legs are not labeled with a sign that reads open.

You claim to be falling.

If you even remember that,

Will you let me catch you this time?

Or will you use my body as a shield?

Only caring when I am in despair,

Before I have the chance to release a waterfall of sorrow.

I ask you one more time,

To refrain from driving while intoxicated,

Or you may soon crash into me,

As I willingly destroy myself,

So, you may steal my life.

Why is it that you find beauty in death?

I am beginning to think you will never truly love me,

Until you end me.