I accidentally swallowed the moon tonight.
It burnt my tongue, scorched my throat,
caressed the caves of me with the white-hot,
the fierce bloom, the licking flames and ache.
Memory is a terrible sin, almost
carnal in nature.
Seductive, but vicious
when it is able to possess.
Physical in it’s urgent needs.
I swallowed the moon and it told me
not to cry, it told me that a hundred times
and I always listened. It is a terrible power
to trace my scars and know that I left them
on my scaled skin myself, I myself was always
the one to wield the knives. The moon told me
not to cry and I never did; I was too strong to
let myself get hurt, I was protected a hundred
times over, and I paid for it dearly: my skin is
a fragile beating of scars, I wielded the knives
and lashed out in self-preservation, wounded
the others, so many now, and left myself here;
navigating the echoes of my cruelty
for so many shadowy months after;
the traces I left on my own life, as well as the
others, their kindly faces, those gentle lovers.
The moon told me to forget.
Today, I could not listen. It has
been too long, and I ache blind.
I swallowed the moon whole, told
myself to be a better person, not
let twisted ideas of beauty guide
me to thoughtlessness, impatience,
the unforgivable cruelty of protecting
my own wretched self with the books,
the stars, the dried leaves and stories,
round pebbles, swaying sunsets, new
friends, old poems, golden sunbeams,
or this magnificent, malicious moon
shining silver in the darkness, an exquisite
dinner plate accidentally left in the sky, a glow
left on too long, a piece of beauty that blooms
so fierce it is hard for me to remember
the reasons or this thudding
ache in the centre