Dear moon,

I read today that being a woman killed Sylvia Plath. I knew it. I read Ariel again and my greatest fears were confirmed. In every economy of mystagogy there are certain rules for buyers and sellers that do not make sense when you are asleep. I dreamt that my lover crawled through the small doors constellated like puckers at the bottom of a scalloped dress leading him through the rooms of his wife’s college apartment. He found her fast at the soft red center and we watched her sleep together. I let men tease me so they won’t realize that I already left a long time ago. I read bloodlines like a Rorschach test, doubled over and exposed to no one. I wonder what I’m trying to tell myself. I remember forgetting the moon once. I looked up and was surprised. Still there. My mother taught me nothing about being a woman. She taught me everything about the precise calculations and permutations of selling dreams.

Dear moon,

No more drunk phone calls at 3 AM, okay? I want her to be happy. I think that you know, moon, that she wouldn’t be happy with me. I’m not asking you for comfort, moon. I’m telling you this isn’t a good thing. Can you make her see that, moon? Can’t you?

Dear moon,

As a stripper, I sell love. I don’t get many tips, but men’s sad eyes still follow me as I walk off the catwalk to the backroom. I know what men want. They want to feel special. That’s why they buy you dinner and call you baby and make sure you always come first if he really loves you. They’re living in a fantasy world where I want her to hide from the fact that they want you to want them but don’t know how to ask nicely.

Dear moon,

How do I say to a woman, woman make me feel like the king of the motherfucking world again? How can I ask her that? How can I ask a woman to be the moon, when you know, moon, that being my woman is what killed her?

Dear moon,

Today I swallowed the sun.