Slide Off The Moon

I keep my heart in a glass of water, watch it blur its own edges, a red thing learning to breathe without instructions. I wanted to be wanted, that old hunger with its bright teeth. I mistook echoes for voices, mistook heat for home, let absence wear a lover’s coat. Regret is not loud. It is a moth in the daylight, beating itself against nothing, convinced there must be a door if it keeps trying. I catalog my mistakes like bones on a shore, not to worship them, but to learn their shapes, to see which ones still point inward. There is a self beneath the wanting, a quiet mineral thing, older than apologies, older than shame. It does not beg. It waits. Tonight I reach out my hands to a ghost. The cold air cracks my skin, and I do not care as I bleed. The mirror clouds, then clears. What looks back is unfinished, and so very undeserving. Not whole, nor will I ever be again Without you  

I keep outgrowing my own scars, then tripping over the new ones. Everyone says keep going, but the road just loops back to the start… same sky, same ache, different version of me pretending it’s fine. Sometimes I think the universe forgot to make a place for me that fits. Every love I’ve known leaves fingerprints that never fade, then swears they were never here. Maybe I was only ever a mirror, something people looked into to find themselves and left when they were done. I’m so tired of being the lesson. So tired of healing just enough to be breakable again. If there’s a version of me that’s enough, I hope she’s asleep somewhere and dreaming this whole life away. ”Something is rotten inside of me I have to find it and cut it out”

Seems your heart is locked up and I still get the combination wrong Or are you simply waiting to save your love for someone I am not?

Nothing is real. Nothing lasts. All stories. Looped and looping. Fake. Everything is fake. I can’t hold it. I can’t. It all can be cut out and rearranged and pasted. It’s not real. it’s all not real. I’m not real. I’m not. It doesn’t matter. You don’t see?

How long could I wander in saudade before collapsing? Would the trees grow their roots around me, dragging me under until I compost into something more useful? Could I come back as a fungi, learn the secrets of the forest? Imagine being immersed in petrichor, knowing your purpose. Mine is ruin, empty bones of waste, shuttered and dank. It does. Not. Matter. None of this does. These useless hollow words do not. This shell does not. My death will not. This monotonous life, limping along, day by day, minute by minute, horror by horror, wake wake wake wake wake wake wake pain pain pain pain pain pain fight fight fight cry cry cry fat fat fat no no no no no no NO no Look at this…crystals and cats and dirt and crap. Where will it go? Trash. Where will I go? Nowhere. Nothing. Pointless. I have fought so hard…to just be and feel and give love…beauty and songs and starlight… Why? Why. I cannot another minute exist. No.

Why is wanting to accept the call of the void frowned upon? What makes wanting to remove one more parasite from this existence so terrible? It is perfectly logical to me. We devour.  We inflict pain on every level of reality. This bond, that blood, this exchange, this observer and observed...we all hurt. We all take. The passage of time comes, exists all at once, back and forth. It doesn't truly matter when the devouring ends. We act like we miss that extra mouth but we don't. Not truly. So you see?  So perfectly logical for my time to end. It has been coming for so long. Truly. Past the point when more fellow parasites could have been spared the agony of knowing me. This vessel, a failure.  The agony of knowing myself. I'm so tired inside I could sleep through a landslide 

I was the afterthought child... the flicker behind a brighter flame, the forgotten verse in someone else's song. I learned to eat silence like bread, learned to curl small enough to fit in the shadows of rooms that never asked me to enter. There is a lineage in me not of blood, but of leaving. Every time I reached out, I came back holding air and the soft echo of my own too-muchness. I have worn every shape a woman can break into... the spare friend, the misfit lover, the sibling whose name is met with polite sighs and lukewarm glances. Only my father, only my grandparents, saw the cathedral in my chest before the ivy took it. And now they're ash, and I still kneel in the chapel of their memory begging for the warmth that doesn't visit anymore. Even love, when it came, tasted like apology. They talked to me, looked at me like something they'd someday have to explain or erase. I ruin things. I touch the tender parts and they bruise. Not because I want to, but because I w...

You were the pulse in a room gone quiet, the breath behind glass I never could break. And I, with hands too full of my own ruin, let you slip still aching for the weight of you. I never meant to drag you through my flood. Hurt swells like a tide in me, and I forget how not to drown the ones who try to reach in. Forgive me. For how I made silence a weapon, for every sharp word disguised as defense, for the way I bled abandonment onto you and called it love. You didn’t deserve the shadows I threw. Now you haunt my unmade bed, the bridge of every song I can’t skip. I want to live in the flicker between waking and dream where you always stay. I still feel you. Still wonder if you feel me too in the space between the chorus and the collapse. I was never trying to leave. I just didn’t know how to stay without setting fire to everything.

I touch what I love and it splits at the seams. Like silk held in stormlight— too fragile for my heat. I never meant to bleed on everything, but my hands have mouths and they’re always starving. I don’t know how to be touched without shattering. I don’t know how to be seen without disappearing. So write it down the damage report, chalk outlines of everything I swore I’d never break. Am I the flood or the vessel? Am I the ghost or the ache? I watch them blink in slow retreat— those who once reached for me. Like I loved too loud. Like I needed too long. But I only ever wanted someone to stay and not vanish when the dark came, not protest when the lighting flashed. They call it ruin, missing pieces of Self every time I chose love with trepidation. Of every time I stayed when the silence was deafening. Am I still breathing in the aftermath? Still praying my daughter never learns to measure her worth like I do I am the storm. When will the rain fall softly? Let me fall into hands that don’...