This is not a story 
of anguish and woe, 
of a girl lamb and a lion boy. 

This is the story of the night, 
the swollen moon 
holding its breath, watching us. 

He is a lion, 
with battle scars on his cheeks, 
rippling across his body. 

But, his round eyes, 
the color of a bloated moon 
shrink him down to a porcelain doll. 

I told him I loved him. 
Love, he repeated. 
Love? he asked. 

His body is rigid. 
An icy coating of terror, 
but it melts under my touch. 

But I am a lion 
with sharp teeth and razor claws. 
My hands and mouth drip with blood. 

No, I say, 
because he is a butterfly’s wing, 
a snowflake pressed up against my bedroom window. 

And you are beautiful, he argues, 
with your snow white wool 
and emerald sea eyes. 

I laugh, 
and he laughs, 
and he grows smaller and smaller under my gaze. 

His hair is damp as morning dew. 
His mouth tastes of grassy earth. 
He is beautiful. 

I love you, I say again. 
He says nothing, 
but opens wide his chest. 

He hands me his heart. 
It is porcelain, 
white as the shell of an egg. 

Before he leaves, 
I put his heart in a cage 
and tie it round my neck. 

The moon exhales 
at last, 
laughing at my cleverness. 

Photo by Andres Herrera