Upon My Sunlit Eyes, I Find the Man in the Moon

by: Mallory Monroe


At dawn, Persephone grasps for solidity in whirlpools, but her fingernails return no earth to ground her. A terminally cocooned, cut off, demised individual; she hides behind phantom eyes while staring upon the scattered fragments of her consciousness. Internally circular thoughts weaving together crooked patchworks of deadly disease to protect her from the twister she had to learn to breathe. Persephone locked in her cocoon when she’s real, always (seeking) desperate to feel the space in between her dreams and her wake.

In the spaces not in space, unclouded nothingness; she can feel enough to see. Her unclouded eyes drip with infinity. Blankness unfolds like spotless cloth napkins on the lap of her consciousness. Only here does she emerge from her enclosure; only here can she stop self-destructing in place; only here does she ever fly, only here. In the space she escapes not in space, where she’s safe, emerges the crystal-clear, endless-eyed, butterfly marionette she would have been if she could touch metamorphosis.