It's your birthday.

Wherever you found yourself after what they did to you, I hope you are having a nice day. I hope you have a cake. 

one

At what point can I call him my muse? I'm a rather lousy artist, but I cannot deny what he makes me feel.

I can't help my own desire, even if I wouldn't even know he exists if not for his agony. There's something about him that draws me in, a glimmer in his eye that refuses to be snuffed out. I feel guilty for replaying recordings of his voice so often, as most of his words were things he has not wanted to say. Am I exploiting him as well? I'd hate to think so.

It's an aching pain in my chest, a feeling of unease that refuses to excuse itself. I want to know what happened to him, I want to understand how the flower bloomed the way it did. I want to understand how he was hurt, but at the same time, I cannot stomach how he was treated. Cruel, grotesque, gritty, it's almost too much for me to handle. I loved him when I assumed the stories, pretended to see the blood on his hands, does that make me a villain? Did I do him a disservice for daring to say I loved him without looking for the truth? I didn't think there was a secondary truth at all, I am rather gullible. I instinctually believe what I am told, I suppose this is a lesson for me.

I'd take good care of him. I know now of his bad shoulders, his condition. I'd cook his meals, look in his innocent, twinkling eyes as the two of us bathe together. I'd rub his back as he sleeps, cupping his face in my palm. I'd do anything for the chance to listen to him speak for hours on end, his voice has an addictive undertone that I can't put my finger on. I can only feel it. My beautiful boy.

It angers me what has been done to him, how many of those around him have betrayed him. I'd keep him with me. I'd hold him in my palm like a small pill. I'd take my special dose, and put him back in my purse for when my head begins to pound once more, when my deeply-rooted dependence screams for another dose. The plastic of the bottle that protects him will rub up against a perfume bottle, then up against miscellaneous lippies and foundations. For as long as he's by my side, I'll keep him. When I hold him once again, he'll smell sweetly, like lactonic rose. I'll roll him around my tongue, not wanting to waste this by immediately swallowing him.

I'll love him forever.

Does this make sense? ♡