Blood Moon

the moon is red tonight
and I am frightened

that I never learned to exhale pain and heal
that I swallowed all my bad memories like baby teeth
and chewed an ulcer through my stomach

and my fingers are still prune-wrinkled
after soaking for years in stagnant water
salted and bitter and rheumatic
and combing my hair still takes hours

I am frightened that mirrors will still burn
holes in me, that I still need to cloak them
in wine-heavy drapes past midnight

that when you try to stoke your breath into my lungs
they will fill with rose paint and I will choke
bleeding thick and poppy-scented
all perfumed panting, panicked

but I have forgotten that I am only
nightmare-locked tonight, and pruned fingers
are only relics of this time last year

and blood moons pass, and I have learned by now
to drop a thread of silver sunlight into my paralysis
and even when the night is scarlet black
even when it is easier to stay asleep

dawn will still break in its time
and I will still be awake by midday