cattle-prod or, why not enter a december poetry challenge?

my muse tells me that i can live the life of at least one and a half normal people. he tells me this not in spoken words, but in a series of unconscious gestures. he mocks the way animals communicate. i can never be certain of his intentions, or whether what he says is intended as communication. he eschews absolutes. one day i nearly caught him in a mirror. he looked disturbingly like me. or perhaps i imagined this. the possibility i was simply projecting an image has occurred to us both. creating. this is what my muse wants. to trick me into an act of creation; to disturb the peace. i hate him. i gender my muse, make him a man because men are easier to hate. but on half-asleep afternoons he nearly tells me about his femininity. he makes me wear high-heels when no-one is around. he wants to have my baby. he promises the extra half-life i earn in his service will be of depth, not length. he lords both words and experience over me. he cries if i ignore even one performance. my muse is a devil.