Mone D. Moore
Her name was Spring,
But she felt like Winter—
Shivering leaves and biting wind.
I thought I could save her with my love,
Thought I could kiss away the raised reliefs of her pain
on the map of her flesh.
I reached out to her even as she pulled back,
Until the pit of her self-loathing swallowed her whole.
Her name was Spring,
And she passed just as quickly.