Moon Cactus

Heretics, Lovers, and Madmen

I dreamt of you, again. It’s been years, but in my sleep I

recalled every feature of your fine pale face, and the guttural tone

of your voice. I could smell you;

I held my breath against the scent of menthol ciggies and

gin and tonic sticking to your saliva.

I spent the night with your phantom

banging around inside my head. Now that I’m awake, I

convince myself all over that I hate your pretty fucking being,

because you’re interesting to look at, vivid red like a piece of exotic fruit.

I want to split you open and see your insides, have a taste of your heart. I

want to do this even knowing the stingy itch of your spines.

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© 2019 Kindra M. Austin

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