Harvest Moon
Staring at the sky as it stares right back.
The man in the moon,
Yet, feminine to me.
At this time last year, I lay in a pile of tissues on my dormitory floor.
Patterned rug stained with tears and a small amount of vomit
Caused by overindulgences to quell my feelings.
I vacuumed three times, yet it remains.
I sanitized the screw before entertaining the idea,
Before pushing what I thought to be me out of the window.
Now I have a new rug,
Not stained,
But give it time.
I’ve always worshiped the moon, that much hasn’t changed.
Wind on my face.
Fleeting vision of last October,
And suddenly feeling the tears fall,
Completely unexpected,
And learning to find the beauty in that.
Fleetwood Mac CD and a fog,
Either eerie or magical, depending how you see it.
Ascending and trying again.
A new me crawling through the window to look at the same moon.
Soon the clocks will switch,
And I will stay,
Forever Becoming.
