You ask for the moon. I trek down into the indigo sky-mine, pickaxe in hand. Hack away at the blue rock, until I find a lump of ore - glowing like a pupil-less eye - lost its stare.
I behaved myself for months and was allowed some acrylics and canvas. After I painted over the security camera, tried to hang myself with my bed sheets.
Never the proud, protective lover; I was too fragile to break. We rowed, so I clawed at your face like a rake, slicing you to smother and smooth my ache.
My fingers making spirals on your upturned palm - your spine, a shivering river, wading between the valley of your shoulder blades. My hand, floating downstream.
My dear sweet, little sister; an annoyance sent by angry storks. Oh, how with floppy tongues they flock. She is a nymph and I, Medusa. If only they would love me the way they love her.