if the thought of me is an uncomfortable one,

the same ache as a bullet through your flesh—

maybe that’s best.

i have tried for too long to be anything but.

instead, i will leave my edges sharp,

my failures glaring and wet with your blood.

there is little left of myself, little that I haven’t 

whittled or carved or tore or buried away.

another cratered thing lying dead in the sky.

---

the moon only glows because of the sun,

and without a star to hold onto,

it is just another un-shining rock.

without its star, instead of beautiful,

you look up at its scarred skin

and call it grotesque.

the moon is a cratered, 

dead thing now.  maybe it will be

happier that way.

---

i’m just beauty under a wrong light,

then.  an ugly pill that you

refuse to swallow.

or instead, maybe, there isn’t enough 

material to work with. not enough

time left to feel like enough.

i’m melodrama by any other name.

begging for second chances too late.

there’s no redemption coming for the ashes.