Bathing Beneath the Moon

I am made of pomegranates

And spice, a body

Covered in four leaf

Clovers for luck.

Bathing in cinnamon

And nutmeg that

Smells of apple cider

So divine that the moon

Cries sweetly into

My bath of sweets.

However, the nyhpm

is beautiful

Bathing in her blood

rose Petaled bath

Beneath the moon’s

beacon

Of light I can’t

Fight against.

Yet, again I’ve become

Another stale piece

Of bread to comb

The insides

Of the moon’s intestines.

Leaving another paint brush

Left to rot in

His vase with

A laugh so sweet,

He could make the

Angel’s cry from

The harmony of

His voice.

My laugh is the sound

Of cymbals, my cries

the sound of snow

Falling but the moon loves

Her Summer mornings

not my winter

Nights.

Yet,

I have heart made

Of jealousy, as I wave into

His Lakes of milk and honey

Yet, I became second

Best as soon as

She met the moon.

I became nothing

But the shadow

Behind the mirror

Looking back

At me.

A girl who tries

Ever magic tool

In the handbook

Trying to be beautiful.

Using every lip plumper,

Nose shaper,

Every shade of lipstick

And blush.

Burning the coils

Of his vape on

My crystal pale lips

With heart made of

Milk but my body

Has turned to

Sweet Honey.

As I slip off every

Page, back into

My jar of unnoticeable

sweetness.

The moon never uses

In his Japanese tea

As I return to bathing

Beneath his beacon.