Not Yours, Never Yours

The moon is not yours.

You can't paint me however you chose,
Not even when my brushes are stuck
To the bottom of a forgotten water cup.
Not even when my lips pout in dismay
And the heart of my muse is broken—
Scattered in the night sky and flying gravel.

The moon is not yours

You will not weaponize my feminity,
Not when I've been raised up strong
By the weathered hands of warriors.
Not when I've learned to rise and fall
Riding both my high and low tides
And burst gracefully with the misty air.

The moon is not fucking yours

You do not breathe life into me.
Every oath of love you dare utter
Has been rotten from the inside out.
Poisoned by parasites and pathogens
That you refuse to root out
They're unhappily flourishing like demonic tendrils.

I am not yours.

If my paint is dried up
And my focus distraught,
I will draw my daydreams into sand.
If the world around me collapses
Reduced to the dust from which it came,
Never fear, Mother Earth is near... Like wilderness I will rise again and again.