She is my luna, the dying night —
writhing her silver beads around my red wrists.
I heard her heart sing, and seldom scream
when shadows burdened my lips clean, softly.

I wait for her at twilight with my
body undone, unfolded, transient; so her
midnight fondles turn my head towards the sun.
I awake with the weight of her mouth kissing
me, cautiously; and take her taste with
when I am hollow.

She avoids me in the day and smothers me
before dawn breaks, and I let her swoon on
the gapes of my curves ‘til there’s
no breath left in the day.

She is my luna, and I won’t give her pain away.

She bit her lip, blood let in her gums,
on the picket fence, staining white houses
with her sinful finger tips

(Said stars weren’t meant to shine but burn)

I watched her chew
Gnaw on her skin until her veins shown
in her scar tissue — not deep enough to shadow;
but visible like the bones that poked through
                            her buttoned dress

She would unbutton, tear and ruin
the tethers that held her upright
Keep her body **** for boys to
touch and gamble upon

I watched her feed off her dead skin,
hear her whisper in the dark,
remember her cries when I forgot how to feel,
and always think she is she, burning above
dim-lit strangers in the night of a car

*(The moon mourns over Jezebel, the lone lost star)