The Moon and Me

By Olivia Ferrucci

He lights the candle of aspiration
with wet matches soaked by green men,
​acting as if it is okay to trample another
​with heated words and fighting tongues
cleft by ignorance.

Those who have not been through it 
simply cannot fathom the degree of the pain.
Slanting tears dropped like lost lovers.
At what intensity do you choose to acknowledge the burn scars?
The slighted agony of "two halves"?
A half year of this plague has raged on, and yet we always await approval
For I am tongue sliced from under
pink flesh and mascara paintings.
Somber trills filling the crescent's daughter
and we continue on.
If smoke is poison, what is the cost of a cure?

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