MOON

[ 01 ]

mother the celestial grace on your calloused fingers is so rooted in the hollows of my strands that occasionally I wish to peel it off like dried-out orange peels. your love feels like a morgue of fading suns on my flesh. it burns and ripples through my entirety and yet slithering disobedience residing in every nook and cranny makes me crave more. your fingers are rotten from the decade-long mastering of skill in the kitchen but you're still able at what you do so i hate to complain. the rage i have accumulated from you that you have from your mother and she from hers has pricked your chest with thorns since birth so i will not sit here and pretend like you are not allowed to look for a release tonight. i will make myself smaller, quieter, happier until i am nothing but a foreign girl in your grip who likes to make a blubbering fool of herself in the company of strangers. but i will listen. i will listen to you even if i am the seething itch on your skin and even if gentle scraps of food are the most angelic form of love i have ever received in these seventeen years. i will paint myself into walls until i am nothing but a vacuum in your space before you decide to hand me the next meal of the day. your love stains my fingers and lips like pomegranate seeds but if you want, I will keep it close anyway.