I must kill my muse.
It will not be easy.
She doesn’t deserve to die.
She doesn’t deserve to live.
We were cut from the same scrap of craft store fabric. Left in a heap on the floor. Marked down. We were never meant to be accents.
I must kill my muse because she has grown too big. She bites back. No longer carefully crafted words from a lifetime of misunderstanding.
My muse is a horror
And she can no longer live.
I have tried to write her wrongs.
And I only wrong my rights.
The muse must die. So that I can live.
To be absolved she must dissolve.
I will pour the gasoline of my words over her body.
And light the fire in my heart.
I will spit the hell song that she has sung to me.
And she will
Die before I do.