Muse

She is a flawed woman and her flaws aren't even poetic. She's just you and me, a woman who mistakes face for truth, and wears affection like yesterday's shirt. Lost, confused, occasionally lying— That's all she is: human. A human who fears loneliness, so she invites harm just to be seen. A human who can't stand her shallowness but when she thinks, discomfort reminds her why shallowness exists. She's not perfect, no— she knows her tale doesn't end in silence, not birdsong. She's the passerby you see and forget; She's the milk in your fridge silently going bad— She's the soul you don't read, the smile you can't catch, the sunset by an unmapped coastline.