full moon in Pisces

this poem is a tantrum 

tears plopping down on the plush surface of a pathetic stuffed bear

tan skin turning purple 

wide eyes bloodshot and terrified

small hands trembling with knuckles white around the bones

throat bound by indecipherable groans and screams escaping through a squirming bottom lip

a pressurized orb trying to explode and close in on itself at once.

that’s it:

the bloated face of unbridled passion expelling the fear of short-lived desire 

lost in a moment that can’t contain it 

a pain so self-indulgent that it threatens to choke you on the shards of air bursting out,

desperation enacting itself on stage in every cell of your body.

the focus, the fist; 

or maybe it’s the toy clutched, so urgently

tattered and patched 

one eye missing

an arm, torn

and fluff overflowing from each burst seam;

or maybe it’s the adult looking down on the performance 

coaxing gently with promises of something better to come 

but only if there’s space for it, only if you let go first;

so then, maybe it’s the unravel—before it can be over but after it has stopped happening 

the first breath that goes in jagged

and comes out clean.