moon child

Let me tell you a secret.

I used to be the ocean. I would spread my arms from country to country and tilt my head back, my hair like a million sleeping mermaids. Fish swam inside me, through me. Boats and forgotten fishermen floated in their graves at my feet.

I used to be the ocean until I crawled onto the sand and into the moon. Now I am the moon child, made of sea salt and fish bones. I am the ocean that decided to crawl away and cover my skin with comet dust. I hold craters in the palms of my hands like bruised flowers and the mermaids that used to be my hair have woken up and they sing to me. They call to the moon, ask her to return their beloved ocean. But the moon is silent, turns away with a face like a thunderstorm.

Let me tell you a secret. I'll whisper it into your ear like misty midnight waves.

I used to be the ocean. My blood was blue water and green water and gray water when the clouds got heavy. I was made of salt. But I crawled onto the sand in the middle of the night and left a desert behind me. The mermaids are dying and space is too quiet and dark. The craters hurt like punches held back for a thousand years and black eyes and thirteen stitches.

I became the moon child and tried to fill the craters with the ocean.

Let me tell you a secret.

The salt only stung my wounds.

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