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