write about the moon. write about how it pulls at every liquid on earth including the blood churning through your hands as you write about the moon. write about your hands, how they can be stone and still sweat, how when he let go of them you jettisoned around him in a permanent orbit and grew perfectly round. write about how lonely it is reflecting everyone else’s bright shining life, how you are pocked and hollow down to your chalk white bones, how you only appear to glow. write about the men who’ve wormed their feet in you since, how this makes the first one’s departure less arduous, so many trails punched into your dusty hips you can’t trace back the first to its origin. write about how the first man planted his flag in you wrong, how it fell limp to the side while he experimented with his boys and left you without language, how that ruined you. the only warmth he left behind were the marks scorched into your pretty face. write how every flag forced inside you since turns white and that empty space looks like your name. write about being made to look down at his house every night, how he takes a woman out into the dark field and points up to laugh at your ugly, the noises you made, what you were willing to do just for him. write about how you can’t stop turning in bed, how it feels like you are alone in a great expanse of darkness. write about carbon: hand and pen, the lunar surface of the page, the ink and its cartridge, his cartilage, how they are all composed of the same elements, how little solace this brings, how your core is molten and spilling over, how you wish you could turn your back.