Killing Moons

Steph O’Brien

Twelve years eight months and nine days
when I met you. You said you’d been twelve for a long time
but I didn’t question it. I didn’t care.
I longed for the sweet embrace of acceptance,
and those insecurities within, obscure and desolate.
Your snowflake skin glistened under the fluorescent lamps
and your matted hair concealed that jungle gym mind.
But you were full of hatred
and I could see that fervent desire,
unapologetic and unyielding,
engraved on your irises.
You were destined to wander ageless and carefree
underneath those white skies and killing moons.
Until the faded memories of our two weeks together
dance with the flames of our DNA,
spitting and twirling before turning to ashes,
and binding our souls as one.
With a Rubik Cube heart and Morse code lullabies,
the old guy couldn’t understand,
that you were my favourite puzzle and I wanted you
to complete me.

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