The right amount of not enough.

 Moon, Ruined

You ruined the moon for me.
She is no longer beautiful --
yet still I hide beneath her dimming light.

When I see her, I can smell your shirt,
the one I wore for days until it stank.
They hid it from me,
but the memory lingers,
sweet until it turns to nausea.

I want to vomit you out.
I want to be vacant again.
But in silence I become a man who cries,
no longer stone.
Moon, wicked traitor --
does my longing amuse you?

Some nights I dream of selling my heart for fame,
just so I won’t be forgotten
the way you forgot me.

My body remembers:
a slip, blood at the ankle,
a fingernail ripped clean,
paint burning the wound.
My own nails carving my arms
the night you pushed me away.

Still, I love the moon.
She is the most beautiful thing
this world has left.

Your name is a sin I whisper,
soft and secret.
I am a filthy dog,
and you hold the leash --
tight, without knowing.

No one is enough for me,
no one will be.
Maybe you were
the right amount of not enough.

Moon.