Waxing Crescent

Waxing Crescent 

She lives in a box

I keep

under a blanket

under my bed

under my body

in my room

behind my door.

Having no space

to walk in circles,

she bathes in blood

and memories,

Dead Leaves and Lilacs

drinking wine and milk,

thinking of a pretty death.

I wont let her have it.

She has cut the right wrist

with the left hand,

and can't be trusted

in Moonlight;

there are reasons the keys

are hidden from her,

for the locks

around her neck.

And I don't dare sleep ever,

so she doesn't crawl 

through the hole

in my back,

or make me feel alive again.

Or make me feel at all.