I wanted to write you a song but when I found myself expressing love with metaphors did I realize the song was not yours but my own.

I don’t want to give myself anything, or maybe I didn’t.

Constricted by the reality that I allowed myself to expect it all from you.

Is that what we do?

I feed your soul and you fuel my passion?

You admire me like art and I use you like a muse.

Draining from you an energy you seem unaware of producing.

I wanted to write you a song and I stood alone to sing only to realize the color I wanted to shade sound itself with was only available with you.

I don’t want to be the magnet in the room pulling in forces from outside of myself.

Conflicting with the forces that I cannot, will not and do not let near.

Is this who I am?

A succubus with a smile and song awaiting my next victim?

You open and I want to open with you.

Only ever peeking through, my essence is unsure and stays behind closed doors.

I wanted to write you a song because the inspiration you provide my art elevates every sound I hear and word I use.

It’s all yours; everything but the song meant for you, belonging to me.

© 2018 Christa Canady