I hope you remember me
in the midnights of yourself,
in the ten half moons that
cupped my face and confessed
your love for me on the
last Sunday of April.
How unpleasant it has been,
to only be seen by you when
the Sun has set and Nyx has
stained your vision with her poison.
Even at our best, it was always
with the help of another woman
that you saw my worth,
however temporarily.
I am beautiful too,
you know,
in the vulnerable streams of
daylight, the muted mixture of
sunshine particles and
exhaled pixie dust.
I am magic—
a witch, a deity, and a minx,
yanking oceans with the
center of my own gravity,
undoing the shackles you have
clasped around my ankles
just because I can.
