i won’t write celestial metaphors anymore.
won’t write about isolated stars.
won’t write love letters to the moon
like an uncertain daughter begging
won’t call him the sun to my moon
because i need him to outshine me.
won’t need him to incinerate me.
won’t need stars when i’m blinded by fluorescent lightbulbs.
when i’m buried in a cathedral of yellowed teeth and stretch marks.
when walking feels like a treadmill.
when i can drown in storm drains
but not my own eyes.
i can’t go
four minutes without looking in the mirror.
i think i’m a narcissist.
then i let him incinerate me again. i’m an isolated star. goodnight moon.