SCORPIO SUN, SCORPIO MOON

When I was born, I took one quick look at you and thought, here we go again, the same banging of heads, the same manic migraines. We were at each other’s throats for centuries; my soul migrating into baby fat after bonding with juices and DNA. The repetitive drooling was my protective wall while you towered over me like pine, ready for petty revenge, even though you weren’t aware of it yourself. My feeble attempt at prose was trapped in diapers while you stared at the clenched fists that grew out of my crib. Later, I got toy tigers and discolored Legos, comforting breast in mouth: 2 A.M tit, 5 P.M. tit from Mom; full pension at the Ritz you created from scratch because you were brilliant at your job. I slept as much as I could, wanting to get away from your eyes that challenged me for duels. But history repeats itself. History runs in the blood in a never-ending dance with karmic math so I only seemed to be the victim. I was the damn executioner as well, staring you down with poisoned pimples, refusing to admire you like others did. But there was no way in hell I was going to be your foot stool. There was no way in hell I was going to be a silent witness to your war with elevators and with everybody else who had the courage to cross you (and the whole world crossed you; that’s what worlds do, that’s their damn job). I stood up for myself, but I’m not a fan of warpaint, I don’t like the smell of napalm. Low hanging grenades leave me cold. But the biggest problem I had with you, the most painful of all, was that I loved you very much.