Luna

Rage girl, rage! Howl at the moon like a desecrated lunatic!

Insist each day wrap its knuckles on your heart.

Jump into the void of chance; change

directions; use the map of intuition.

Don’t mourn the lost loves, they are your own book of private poems, meters that

stay in the body long after the stain of memory is gone.

Swallow a galaxy of stars, lick stardust from your palms, bite the apple with gregarious pride.

History treated you like absinthe – half poison, half god. They tried to sweeten you, burn you, water you down. And for centuries, wracked with shame, you bought the distortion; lay shackled to men in pious robes because your power to create life – the god in you – made them fear. Afraid, they kidnapped your soul, raped your mind, and washed their hands of you once the power was siphoned.  

But one day, dear girl, you will stumble on a potion – a self-love elixir; a concoction of your own creation from centuries past, buried deep inside your bones. 

Sit up, crack the bone and drink its marrow, lick your wounds and shut the door behind you.

You are strong, you are brave, you are, my girl, your very own prince charming.