You confused me, my love, mixed me up with your other whores, didn’t you? You tangled our stories because my writing looks like theirs, sounds like theirs, bleeds like theirs. One of your whores, am I? Stunning, my love. Why don’t we make it official and start a little writing club? Call it the lovely man and his heavenly whores. We’d write hymns about you! your beauty, the twitch of your tongue when you say one of our names wrong, the way your hair jerks like it’s been touched by a ghost when one of us feels too much like another. We’d describe you the way Nietzsche described truth: a prostitute, despised and worshipped in the same breath, dragged through language until you shine. Darling, can’t you see it? Can’t you see what you’re doing to your muses? To us? To the whores you keep summoning with every careless flick of your charm?