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Moving in and out of shadows, his moon love has scarred me.
As he grows whole again, I think I can feel him forgetting me,
but I’m left with all the marks. I am cracking in this caustic air
whereas he continues to go on, changing his mind nightly, owning
each new confusing shape whilst I unbloom. I want to claw his flesh and
scratch that serpent visage but he is unscarrable. I loved him yesterday
and I love him more today, I’ll be dead by tomorrow, drowned in his chalk-sea.
He gorges on innocence, it’s his only hunger. He doesn’t bleed nor feel pain
nor see mine. His crescent smile sickens me but I want to bathe in his stains.
I sense him every night, watching him with my silent screech-owl’s eye
and tasting his infection on my lips like arsenic. But I am not alone.
His presence is marked by many; we all watch him swell with our septic eyes.
He enlarges like a frosted bud unpeeling. His brassy light reflects on to me
and I wonder whether I gleamed to him, lingering like bruised flesh;
he engorges; I blister; and his shadow engulfs me. The cold surface grows
and it looks like war, full of crippled winter-stripped trees and ice-rock -
the texture of a twitching eyeball- unlike my overgrown, strangling insides.
He’s the coldest thing I’ve known. Once full, he is the colour of a jackal’s tooth.
Glaring down, his nakedness, all silver and bare, yolkless like a purposeless egg,
brings me to my knees and forces my skeletal face into its final bone blush.
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