moon coma at The Bitchin' Kitsch (page 6)
Published October 2015
by Alison Ross
The moon sweats its last tear. The sun strangles the sky, poison seeping from the stars. The gravity of an inverted night weighs down on my dreams. I am master of my coma, forged in the fire of a startled oblivion. When I awake, I see butterflies, but you see only rain. I hear the earth shedding its skin, like a snake writhing through forests. Your laughter subsides as you slip into the past like the ghost of an hour.
These mirrors hold complicated truths, you say, and I swallow myself whole.