Moon Phases


I was born a moon amongst a world of suns,

revolving around its ethereal light, but fearing the day we touch

because all I’ve ever embraced was my own darkness.


The shadows swallow my soul in hopes that in my brokenness,

I would fall into heaps, the thundering aftermath of my universe crumbling at my feet,

so that they reveal the phases of change;

my heart caving in on itself.


The first phase: I was nothing, only tired smiles, cigarette teeth, and desperation a bitter taste at the tip of my tongue; a hollow shell searching for meaning in an otherwise empty existence.


The second phase: I was lost after a perilous journey to hell and back, finding love in his late nights and careless drive down an endless road, no hands on the wheel, just praying to God that we don’t fall from this high.


The third phase: I was broken, left scrambling for the missing pieces, scattered like ashes in the wind, my internal fire now a scorching wasteland because I thought it’d be a good idea to touch the sun.


The fourth phase: I was healing from the wounds he imprinted in my spirit, ensuring that I could never fly again, but I picked myself up, and rose from the remains.


The last phase: I am whole, escaped from his ever-present silhouette, gripping me and ripping me from reality. I was a full-moon gilding tide to wash the blood from my hands, and cleansed like a universal baptism, I succumb to the mourning galaxies.

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