The Muse

The Muse (poem)

By Larissa Thomas, © 2019

I think I’ve been neglecting my Muse

She used to show up every day

Now she has to pencil me in.

Maybe I took her for granted

I can change.

I caught my Muse being unfaithful

She’s been with someone else

⁠—I think.

Now she’s whispering to them.

The things she used to whisper to me.

Maybe I can fix it.

I can fix it.

My Muse has been rehoming our darlings

She takes them while I sleep.

Now my abode is a disarray of Post-Its, notebooks

Holes where ideas used to be

Maybe she’ll leave me if I don’t stop her.

I’ll stop her.

I’ve been considering leaving my Muse

She never picks up when I invoke her

She says she’s having more fun with her new “friend”.

Maybe I can find a replacement Muse. Can’t be that hard.

She’s about reached her mileage anyhow.

My Muse is a whore.

She came home covered in someone else’s smell.

Stinking. Soggy. Hickey’d. Depleted.

I pushed. Tore. Plunged. Lubed.

But the fruit in her tomb had been picked clean.

My afflatus was flaccid. It was her fault.

I woke up with burning blisters. A stardust allergy?

Figures.

I need to get hard.

So.

I cut my muse to pieces and left her for dead.

I told everyone what a lousy pray she was.

No one will want her again.

I haven’t even thought about her in a while.

muse has found someone new.

They’re happier than ever.

Good for them.

I don’t need a muse anymore, anyway.

Because silence is a virtue.

And I have nothing left to say.