Muse.

Make me your flamenco dancer under the fiery Spanish sun,

hold me, in your arms, like a classical guitar,
caress my body like its strings, let the music serenade the stars.
But if I have to ask for romance, then it loses its appeal.
Acts of love must come from the heart, otherwise
they are conditions of some courtesan's contract.
Paint me, making me your muse, like some pearl earring wearing girl,
write me into epic love stories, like I am your very own Mumtaz Mahal, Juliet or Isolde.
And if I have to pry petals from your heart, like squeezing water from a stone,
I would rather be at the theatre than suffer through your acts.
Affection must be effortless, not chapters in some cheaply written script.
If I must make pleas for love, I might as well learn to celebrate myself instead,
to ask for appreciating words from some mister sets women's rights back,
so take your drug shop novel love back to the store,
for I am a woman who demands to be adored.