Megan Falley writes, "“I liked the idea of... having a muse around who [didn’t] necessarily have your best interests in mind."
Some people call it intrusive thoughts. Like, the kind of thoughts to tell you to lick a salt lamp. Or drive your car into a tree at full speed.
I named mine. I call her Chastity.
Chastity has a lot of opinions. She loves red lipstick and she hates bitter food.
She loves the cold but she refuses to wear the bulky coat my parents got me in September.
"It looks," she insists, "Like a marshmallow.
How important are your toes are you anyway?"
Chastity is bisexual and she has a type. She likes men, women, and anyone else, as long as they make her feel unsafe.
"Being on edge turns me on." She whispered into the ear of my last lover, pressing a knife gently into her hand.
She never knows when to go to bed, always needs to check facebook one more time.
"But what if someone has posted something important?" She wines when I try to put my phone away for the night.
Chastity doesn't tell me to do things, she asks, she suggests, she manipulates,
"What do you think would happen if you had another shot of vodka?"
"Do you think Leo's lips are as soft as his brother's?"
"Could you masturbate without getting caught in that public restroom?"
It's hard to blame her for the things that go wrong.
She makes it hard to forgive myself.
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