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With two little pats on the back of midnight,
I roll over onto the hardest parts of a beach and drain my headaches
into the sand. While meditating, I call to mind, “The darkest hour
is just before the dawn.”

The moon grins,
asking me to dance.

Without deciding, the silk of my white blouse stops breathing
I unbutton it from the neck down, slowly. (You can’t regret something you take your time to do)
The moon watches me slip into something a little more comfortable
My skin, it’s the only thing that keeps me together
It’s the only thing that keeps me from spilling into the lake like a jar of marbles along the concrete
We dance
I tease the sand with my silhouette
Tilt my head back and stroke the sky with the paintbrush of my womb
My arms droop
and lift and push
and pull
Lovely. I feel lovely.
Whoever watches, whoever hears the music, whoever is in this experience must feel lovely too
We take off and float without seatbelts…

Until the universe has its way of blowing harder the closer we get 
to our destination –I hate this part (and hate will take up more space in your
head than love do in your heart)

Music, too loud. Too intense like a strobe light flashing sound.
The moon drags its knuckles down my spine, bending and breaking open without permission
Corroded teeth gnawing at hip bones, shrivelled tongues
crawling around the caves of mouths uninvited
There’s no other direction to run if you’re trapped in an open space. (Especially if
you’re running in the dark)
The darkest hour shoulders me with its breath like it’s in a hurry to get somewhere
To my knees, I fall
and get back up

The wind takes me with it into the lake

To my knees, I fall
but can’t get up, not this time
I shake my fist at the moon, I cry
I clutch my chest and scream into my hand
My hand, my, my –
My skin, I remember my skin and pinch it 

I have not spilled into the water!
To my knees, I rise. Slowly. And get back up.

Good Morning.

Britta B.

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