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
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?
I need to get hard.
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.