You don’t get to call me by that name any more,
I am no muse, no painting to hang upon your frame any more,
I will age from a maid to a crone as I wish
Because in growing old there is great knowledge within it.
One day this skin will fall from my bones
to decay like leaves on the floor of a forest
There is truth in beauty and a beauty within the darkest of things.
I count my blessing but they are never counted on,
I am young, but I know that I am not young for long.
You can stretch the truth of age all that you want
but the wolves in those bars only thirst for young blood.
The dichotomy of it all means
I am all that I am because of all that I am not.