Zoe Davis

They tell me it is just a moth refracting moonlight. waning cryptid prism. but no mortal can convince me moths are creatures of this world. they are of the one after. harbingers of doom ground from dust. powdered faces whose masks crack. fade. as i paint mine anew. i slide slug fingers down tributary veins the doctor says he could ablate. my legs were wings once. now

they betray me cruel as bleachwhite skull etched upon my abdomen. your grinning exit wound.

i have no choice except to claim it is a passing soul i see. not Nyx diminished. headbutting a chandelier.

Zoë Davis is a writer from Sheffield, England. Follow her on X @MeanerHarker