The Full Moon calls to me
tugs my pen-hand, my entire being.
Demands I write the truth
in its milky blankness
for everyone to see.
I fight but weaken and when I arrive
the Moon spreads himself wider
fat with triumph, and chuckles
at my fear and anger.
Write, he commands
no more hiding, he presses
I begin, and cannot stop.
Do not want to stop.
The truth, he chants, the whole truth
I write myself onto the Full Moon.