The Tide Of My Blood Never Changes

Let it go, the moon demands. The shoulders I have lost all analogies for. The hands that have held my fire, quick and shockingly cold, burning away skin until it’s ash and bone. This is not a song for those who are lost or alone I am neither — close to nothing, sometimes — snapping my jaw shut on silence, not wanting to give way. This is my body, under the moon, washing clean all my poems against a rock (half mad — exhausted — burning up). I have sunk all the bodies, but they float to the top. I cannot let go — I cannot give up.

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