Moon in Scorpio

I’m an envelope carried for too long,
protecting my contents; my skin is paper
sheathing over fire that’s learned the art
of not combusting.
I’m doing the dishes today.
Washing and shelving plates.
Answering my child’s questions.
Driving through a forest in the dark,
the moon in Scorpio and moonlight
twisting my cold feet in their boots.

My pores are liabilities, whistling steam.
I shush them so no one hears
the sound of you growing inside me,
growling and glazed:
a rainbowed summer animal
flipping belly-up toward the sun,
jumping up to catch my heartbeat,
dancing against the seams
of its glowing cage.

When I close my eyes, I taste blood,
and remember you finding me in the maze.

You were the madness of moonlight,
following the breadcrumb trail
of blood drops on snow.
You chased me, held me down,
healed me with soft poultices of words.

The melt and sizzle of your fingers
sinking past the rippled surface
into crust and core.
Every touch gave birth to roses
and thorns.

When I close my eyes, I taste blood.
You covered me with warm blankets
of promises to stay.

You loved my winter
and cradled all the dead things to you,
never expecting spring.

All around me is November today
and there are bills to pay,
but there’s too much of you inside me
causing a disturbance,
bleeding to the surface,
burning slowly through everything.

© Psyche Marks 2017

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