all that's left is
skin, bone, loose thread, sick-red mascara
something i could break, if i tried.

a nightmare to charm anybody
waiting for me at the end of every day,
a lover i imagined i hated, but still,
still, there she was.

"i have lost my faith in the lucky thirteen." you say,
as you cradle the moon in the palm of your hand,
fragile as glass.
and i watch your eyes close
and your shoulders hunch with defeat
and the glass moon falls and shatters
on the cold floor.