Mine is just another room lit in the cold of the night —
this just another poem in a bedside drawer,
written by just another girl
whose windows she left open to talk to the moon —
it's just another liar
to another naive girl, reading into every word,
splashing into every wave, rising.
Oh, to drown in grace
under the moonlight
was not something I'm supposed to know;
now, didn't you think
I already was broken enough
to have this dress, all drenched,
these cheeks, all wet,
these boats, all wrecked?
The moon is just another liar,
and epiphany is just a pretty word
for truths, finally unveiling themselves
as betrayal,
as ache,
beguiled by the moon to spread,
to map these bones and joints,
flooding,
claiming my body for its own;
now all this hurting is the ocean
and I, a whale carcass.
And the moon is a liar and the windows are closed
and in these moon-forsaken sheets,
I do not know where to start healing first.
