#leave a message

I will call you back next week.

K.

I will be checking my mailbox more often.

M.

She’s a wolf.

When the moon strikes at midnight and its blue light paints a shadow of pain,

she turns into this hideous creature

moving along the shops’ window panes:

her claws leave red blood on the pavements and her hair falls down the well;

is it her blood or someone else?

And even if she knows the answer, will it make any difference?

She’s a beast.

Her heart grows as big as the old fairy tales.

Perhaps when she was born, a witch left a curse on it.

A curse that looks like a red claw mark of the wolf looking at her:

His yellow eyes still haunt her dreams.

I will call you back, he said;

I will check the message you left, he said;

She doesn’t know what to do when she hear words like that,

because the wolf always leaves in the end.

She’s the moon.

Though there are hollow abysses and craters on her face,

she still manages to ride through the waves,

and when her beauty shines – once in a while – on the full moon night,

she brings the silver ocean to his lover, the shore:

She knows that now and forever more,

there’s no love for a moon that’s a thousand hundred miles from it.

She’s a girl.

Broken and destroyed and rusty – you name it.

She wasn’t born this way, she promised you that,

but the rest is as old as time, and she never mentions it.

Of course she knows lies when she hear them, she said,

but how can one give up on hope?

And when she asks you that, you will be stunned.

You don’t know if she can distinguish truths from fiction,

or whether she sees through your facade.

You wonder what she wants: loyalty or another hurtful breakup.

Perhaps it will help your conscience when you know that

she’s been long used to both.

I will call you back, you said,

And I will check my mailbox more often, you said.

She smiles through and through, I know.

She’s a human.

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