Xzairo

i. my muse is a darling thing, so shiny and full of syllables that leak out her pores when she smiles.   she holds her arms like she's carrying a newborn low to her waist and when she steps her footprints sing the bluebirds dead. she tells me that ambrosia's got to sour sometime and i think it's meant to comfort me because ii. my muse is a decomposing thing, so ribless and full of holes from where i have scratched her dry. when i write her sides split open and i try to patch them up but the thread won't hold and there is not room in this ink for the both of us so sometimes i peek through her torn up hip and snatch a glance of