We, The Moon

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: December 06, 2015

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Submitted: December 06, 2015

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I have spent my time here with formulas for the end in my mind,
'when' and 'how' are the questions that linger like disease inside of each thought.
After every night filled with the emptiness of my own company, with tear-dampened pillows and eyes aflame,
I would slump away from the mask of lead that sheltered my hesitant identity.
Vitality is restricted.
Contentment is only prescribed to the healthy.
We are friends, the moon and I. He sees into me like a vase, as I am empty yet filled with smoke. 
I calculate the end each night, for I am too fearful to face myself at dawn.

But you see, no matter how thorough the architecture of my death, I still cannot go.
Because I am still in love with the world. 
There is art I have not seen, poems that I have yet to swallow and books that my hands yearn to touch.
There is music that would not adorn my decomposing ears, and sunsets I would not see underground.
It hurts me to know that even when buried, I would no longer feel the stars on my skin
or feel the moon inside my chest. 
I am still in love with life, but living has broken my heart.


© Copyright 2020 AlanaLouiseMcDermott. All rights reserved.

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