What It's Like to be Murdered by Your Muse

First, she lets you remember the sun
on your ex-lover's back as you fold
into each other like fresh
laundry near the window.
She whispers. And you, you remember
the contours as he moves like sound-
waves.

Next, she brings out
her weapon; possibly a shank, sharp
like November nights when frost can slice
you slant-wise along your ribs.

Gentle and quick-like, she splits
your neck; a cheap smile to an empty room.
    (Brace yourself, baby, it's gonna’ sting.)

Finally, blood laps against your feet; one last
Tennessee lake as you sit.

Dying.