in your lies
and cunning tongue. I live
my life out in the shade,
dark and cold. The night grows old,
and morning doesn’t spring up
as a buttercup.

You split the moon
with your black, thick fist
giving it a fat lip. Now it drips
blood. I’m covered in red from
my toes to my head.

You packed the stars
in a mason jar,
and threw it in the sea
with your lethargy. Now the only light
is on the ocean floor. But I can’t reach it
with boat and oar.