Leanan Sidhe

And I've tried to put off writing about Mag because she's a cliché—a real life cliché. She's been written ten thousand times over by writers ten thousand times more talented. She is Holiday Golightly, Miss Daisy Buchanan, Beatrice Portinari, that stereotypical kind of extraordinary that permeates pages of classic literature. It's true—she is my muse, but she is also part demon. She is a spider whose bite I invited. The venom dripping from her fangs is inspiration. She pumped me full of it, and now I dance like mad for her amusement, scribbling away at sonnets in her likeness as her poison courses through me and rots my insides. I can feel her sauntering through my blood stream, her laugh echoing in my brain, her scent causing my lungs to swell. My greatest works are merely seizures brought on by her bite.