Help me wipe these hearts off my sleeves. I’ve never begged anyone for anything. Been making my own way since I was 18, I built a life for myself. My own little narrow house. Now I sit in it and spend days waiting for when all the heartache and pieces of myself I lost to others is no longer my albatross, but the past I moved on from. I am a catalyst for self-improvement. Fall in love with me, and be all you ever wanted. Inspiration at your fingertips, poetry living on your lips – they always say there’s no one like me, but no one stops to think why that may be. It’s the muse that suffers in between masterpieces. She sits on her staircase until the next comes along, wandering lost. And she gives him a permanence, a place in her heart, then points him in the right direction and watches him march on. It’s because she cannot equate their expectations, the flawless fantasy they seek in her. Even the prettiest muse has her imperfections. Even the smartest muse cannot be a savior. At least she has her independence, the life she built for herself. Her own little narrow house.
Ah! well a-day, what evil looks,
Had I from old and young!
Instead of the cross, the Albatross,
About my neck was hung. – Samuel Taylor Coleridge, The Rime of the Ancient Mariner
Narrow house: old poetic term for elegy; coffin; grave; sepulcher; resting place.