Three more days until I greet the moon
There’s no telling what I’ll see.
The moon holds no meaning of its own.
I’m throwing my expectations
up at the sky, prepared to see the moon
through the lens of my own reality,
but I’m not comparing myself to the sun;
beautiful in the harsh, dazzling way of diamonds
and razor-cheeked models with hollow throats.
last year, the moon looked sharp and ominous
a sickle moon, ready to slice me in half
a cold moon, stealing the warmth from my skin
pulling the breath from my lungs,
in billowing clouds the color of bone.