The Stray Moon
Corvina Blackwoodtasting my hockey roommatei made a bloody mess in the kitchen sinkcut the tension with a knifei hold on so nervously
My mouth is dry, tongue glued to the roof, and there’s a taste in the back of my throat like old pennies and wildfire.
I try to focus, but the room won’t hold still. The ceiling’s warped, and the stains have multiplied, crawling across the plaster like the beginnings of mold. I blink hard, trying to reset, and the whole thing shifts—my apartment ceiling strips itself away in ribbons, revealing a lattice of tree limbs, black and raw against a winter sky. They’re so real I can see the frost biting along the branches, the delicate cradles of snow balanced on each knot and joint.
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