The last body of the Moons I kept
has burnt down to its skeleton.
The flames, they used to dance like quicksilver.
Like poisoned meteors. Like adrenalized vision.
The celestial innards, once were blazing
with sacrificial light,
are now pieces of broken paleness
to warm us through one last night.
So I have to sin for you, to hunt down Moons again,
grasp at midnight air and come back with glowing scars on my hand.
To tear through the skin of what is so pure, it makes you seem unclean,
drag the insides apart then bleed out nonflammable dreams—-
uneven, jagged as your tragedy.
While it draws blood with the slightest touch, like my destiny
reflected a thousand times in a maze of mirrors.
Burning darkness along with truth to forget that
life is a compound of flaws and errors:
Everyone laughs, everyone cries.
(Birthday candles, braces, graduation, hard work, heavy safe)
Everyone lies, everyone dies.
(Wedding dresses, denture, retirement, hollow life, lonely grave)
So when the time comes, I bid you forget the wrongs I’ve done.
Including me killing Moons.
Leave me reasons to be missed, not many, some.
And I shall continue the crime that makes lights bloom.
Herma S.Y. Li is a first-time writer, currently a 15-year-old student about to enter Taipei First Girls High School in Taipei, Taiwan. Her current favorite book is Tangleweed and Brine by Deirdre Sullivan. Born in a city filled with rain and mist, she spends her time reading novels, doodling in notebooks, and wandering allays around her home trying to bring about an encounter with good inspiration.