Bitter

Sunday, October 31, 2021

They say ghosts are white
but she is made entirely of witching hour,
tasting of bloodied gums and stale Halloween candy.
She prowls through what’s left of my broken bones,
auctioning them off to the highest bidder.
My tongue is swelling, the taste is bitter.
With her pointer finger and thumb she pinches the sun,
oceans of daylight flicker out in defeat. 
I try to bite down on forests of the mirthful
but sap sticks to my throat.
The wind bowing to her cackle.
I bury my baby teeth and shoo away ravens.
I claw at the barking stars,
my hands coated in soot from crumbled midnight.
I continue this ritual
until morning fog rolls upon my hips.

This piece was published in Issue 2 of The Hallowzine.

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