The afternoon sun beats down on the man I can hear yelling from my window,
pushing his cart, which I’ve never seen up close, except once-
younger than 9 years old and
excited to finally have occasion to do so,
rushing down stairs I’d spent countless evenings imagining to house the vilest of monsters in its hollow banisters
(whispered into this hollow, watched them glow bright and blinding, dull their claws and razor-teeth on lemon-juice secrets sour that reject whatever saccharine relief comes their way; some days I’d whisper them a story on the way back from school; others I’d send them messages to deliver to other realms I cannot set foot into yet)
There was a rumor among the kids that he kept children in the burlap sacks under his cart
fed them overripe aubergines and tomatoes until they too turned purple and red
for all eternity. constantly.
I tried to poke at the sacks as he weighed out herbs and roots
(they were empty)
he smiled, toothless, told me to run straight back to my mum no detours.
I told the hollow that I’d narrowly escaped capture at the hands of the town orc;
knew that to be too unkind; came back once the guilt got to too much and told them that the orc is friendly and counts out the exact change. And that he isn’t an orc at all.
Put my ear to the darkness and try to hear if it forgives me.
It does,
I tell myself.
I’m not so sure of it, anymore.
On nights I threatened to run away,
Clutching paper souls in my hand,
I imagine I could melt into this hollow
and I’d be peaceful–I would.
I could cradle every whisper I’ve ever sent into this space,
hold it close and press warm kisses to its knuckles
I have loved for less.
I love for less, still.
It isn’t as fun anymore.
Movies in Technicolor and
crackling black and white to batter home your beauty.
I’m trying to hear if you’ll forgive me.
You do, I tell myself.
You would. If only, you’d press your ear to the hollow.
I have so much to tell you.
Crumbling Moons 