I’M SORRY I’M IN SUCH A BAD MOON
Her milky face watches us
copulate from the window. She has multi-
faceted eyes like a moth. I have not seen
a more telescopic love, she mouths.
Look, I say, and gasp when the pull
leaves me floundering, a drowning
fish in sheets. Her eyes widen when she
knows she is undone. She hides in her own
shadow. The lights dim
and in the morning, you trace circles on
my skin. You are in a bad mood. You
do not apologize. Leave. Your next text
contains a typo. I laugh as I wash
blood from the sheets. I use your
words to title my lucid dream.
I watched weeds grow from your cheeks.
You thought they were beautiful. I saw
the way the thistles tore at your skin,
Nettles clawing at dandelion heads
where your eyes used to be.
I panicked, and called an exterminator.
The shhh-spray of your medicine sounded
worse than your tears, worse
than the fears of your girlfriend eyeing
me as she, too, watched as the weeds
she had planted grew.
Your skeleton is covered in moss, and I
failed. I could not stop the spread
with chemicals, or with need.
You thought they were beautiful,
and I watched (and wanted) their withering.
Tara Abrahams is a philosophy student who enjoys collecting and setting up dead things, as long as all the fur and flesh has been removed. She also collects words and arranges them in neat little patterns. Some of her arrangements have been featured in Paper Darts, Thistle Magazine, and The Mall.