Men love a muse until she speaks until the painting stares back until the poem climbs out of the book and asks why her pain was so pretty to you they love a woman best when she is distant dead or devastated something beautiful they can point to without having to answer for the blood but I am not your symbol not your tragic maiden not your damsel in distress not your lesson wrapped in lace I am not some wound you get to call art not a bruise in good lighting not the tragedy you quote when you want to seem deep at dinner you do not get to love the ache and ignore the animal that survived it.
Thank you for being here 🫶🏻
Ouch. So men love the narrative they control. The story they make up. Once that inspiration speaks up and tells its own story, the ugly, cold, hard truth of it... that's when things change.
At least that's how I read it.