i’d sewed It together and begged It to stay

I stitched It together in the papyrus of a grimoire; dribbled love upon

Its mangled lips in

sage-and-wax candle tips.

Her waning crescent spoke to me, a seer in the crimson sea, the final nail in the

coffin is this: you will never be what you once were,

not by tears of the stars,

nor bones of the earth,

not so long as It rots on the windowsill, and

you elude evening seances in the cobweb hills, and

forgot that you dreamed of

a home of your own to build.

How do I convince It to stay?

How do I save the very Thing that kept my worst self at bay?

If It asked for my firstborn, a sigil carved in the walls of my womb,

I dare not let these nightmares be freed:

Do I utter to It that all the children that I have left

are held in the mirror, as It itself sees?

What is the use in searching for a Thing that has long since stopped believing in me?

Not all the skeletons moths in the world could restore this bitter milkweed.

but I just ! Wanted to Create ! Wanted to

prove to It that I could Make

something

worth

dreaming

for.

But nowadays,

even the act of staying awake

feels like such a chore.

I suppose I wanted to make something that would Outlive me.

But stuck in the dregs of a cauldron, I never got the opportunity, not

by tears of the stars,

nor bones of the earth.

I know It had gone long ago,

and left me to rot in the dirt.