you said I was the
coldest thing
you’ve ever seen.
my fingers caked
in mud and
hidden by
the wind, I am
lucid and hoping
but also malaised
and still seeking
an ancient revenge.

you watch me prey;
sip the drip of
the effulgent crescent
bulb I worship.
I hide my sulk
in strut and I
mask things,
like sweetness or
consideration for the others
in your life. I am
dripping accusations down
my lips as you
learn each line of my
palm and you begin to draw
your own duplicity
out for me.

it is not the Devil
you know, but the Devil
you seek.

you didn’t want to
be so right.
I become the
distance: the chasm,
the scorned red bath,
the woods,
the very long
you better dig yourself
out and it always
 starts with a well.

file your nails into
sharp points and
lean into them.

“datura moon”

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