They call it grooming

They call it grooming
 
The moon is pale tonight, half cracked,
speckled, like that ceiling  
the night you took it,
my kicking, my screams,
swallowed them whole in the dreams of your banality,
strokes, one on another, pried,
the pride in your growl, the casket of my body,
the face of the Moon,
I remember that ceiling
and before that,
before no meant nothing,
before I was a tunnel meant for fine tuning
there were those small, sweet glistening lies,
"I could go elsewhere."
And my young self
so already riddled with abandon,
'Don't go,  
don't leave me, take
whatever you need to manifest your staying.'
I gave it to you,
not like a rose, not like the cloud cover before flood,
more like bruises, where condensation rained.
And I still hide,
outrun what was,
your face, your light made of ash and gas,
I still see it  
on the drive home from swimming
around in my head,
carved out like every star
hidden from Earth's view.  
I still hear the officer,
the Mother, the laced judgement,
our friends,
to be believed,
to be beyond reach
and "Sorry,"  
never wiped the stains from my skin.  
We talk about grooming
and I picture you golden,
body reared behind me
plowing our oblivion.