The Writer’s Crucified Muse

The writer feasts her eyes on black keys and blush pink nail polish

ravenous for words that come around 5am with the alarm.

Pull the sheets up tight, her eyes clenching the dreams

away from their burrow in her mind wishing for nestled wolves

rather than humans with sharp teeth.

The writer aims to model poems. Looking sideways at

unbearable coffee house art, pink curtains pushed far

letting the sun soak those same tired keys.

When the writer doesn’t get remotely close to a break:

along with the mundane she’ll think of you.

do you consume art in moments of unrequited love?

how ‘bout when heartbreak feels like a slow descent into thick tar?

Nightmares grip her by the biceps and breast.

Folding in on herself like a somersault the writer grabs a dagger

from her bedside table, trotting out into a snowy night

where she’ll lay bare in a city park not freezing

carving out wood and stones for a selfie stake

hanging dry elderflower, wildflowers, lavender, eucalyptus, and rose.

The writer builds it up with a thousand horrid memories

you him they

run through her mind like the

speed of love and anguish

latching onto each one,

she steps onto the stake with the gilded dagger singing

and brings it hard into her chest dropping a match on her grave.

You’ll smell those flowers burn bright.

The writer sings loudly, one hand full of honest pages

letting the ink dry by the fireside flames.