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Ciara May 8
She is a butterfly...
hiding under sunspots.
He’s a gecko,
lurking in that velvet corner where the light forgets to go.

She is chaos—
he’s the eye of her storm.

They were born from deep sea vents,
rose up to the skies like they meant to crack open clouds,
pull humans into a frenzy
no weather pattern could predict.

She calls it life.
He? He just stares into death,
like it’s a familiar hallway with flickering lights.

The question of origin?
It’s always that stupid finger—
pointing,
blaming,
laughing at the moment they both thought:
"Wait… was any of it even real?"

Hey, ****.
It’s all tiny signals,
she read.

"It’s all eternity,"
he preached,
like a god with a broken clock.

They walked through each other’s ghost stories,
talked all night in a language made of
fake memories,
false starts,
and déjà vus shaped like abandoned houses.

They locked eyes—
those traitorous, trembling eyes—
and whispered vows
to nights that haven’t happened yet.
To days that only those **** aliens have seen.

Yeah. Those aliens.
The ones living on the edge
of the universe’s bubble,
eating popcorn,
watching this bubble bursting program
on cosmic cable.

And when the light consumed the darkness,
when the tiny capsules cracked open like old seeds—
they were left raw.
Naked.
Shivering in the gift-wrapped curse
called "Time."

She ran away.
He walked away.

Moments…
split.
Time…
parted.

While million-dollar math problems
sit unsolved on cluttered desks,
watched over by smoke-drenched visionaries
who know something’s wrong
but can’t solve heartbreak
with equations.

This is the program.
It’s always been the program.
We’re just signals,
wrapped in skin,
playing roles,
in a show
with no rehearsal
and no pause button.

So if you’re watching,
dear alien—
just know…

We improvised the whole **** thing.
Ciara May 6
Reflections on water,
sun’s shining bright —
and it made me think of you.

How hard can you be?
You drive me off
my sanity.

The long enough I wait,
and I see —
I’m running into your arms,
arms that forgot
how I had been.

I am burning.
And I know —
nothing
will stay the same.

We are gnawing
at each other.
Nothing stays.
Nothing stays the same.

You embrace me.
You throw me off the edge.
Still, I know —
nothing stays the same.

THE CALL OF THE VOID.

Everything’s dictating me.
What’s to be done?
Off with you, dictator!!

Nothing new to me —
just the void.
All the same.

Here’s to that call —
again.
Again.

Dreams scream real
while I lay asleep
in my bed.
Ciara May 6
All the things you do—
echo like footsteps in ribs.
I am an idiot,
who doesn't know questions,
not the kind that make sense,
not the kind that leave answers.

Am I you?
Or are you me?
Or are we mirrors
cracked in different colors,
reflecting only where we broke?

A part of me
doesn’t want to see you—
but every part of me
craves that which is you.
I don’t know what’s breaking
or what’s already broken.
I only see tricks.

So am I tricking myself
to believe it’s love?
Is it madness?
It isn’t everything—
but in the silence, it becomes everything.
Sometimes
it’s a movement in static
I feel
that’s dancing.

Did I forget
to move on my own?
It’s been a while.

I’m just a filter now,
a filter of remembrance,
catching echoes
from a self I almost remember.
Ciara May 6
What does courage mean
when you can't say
the words you mean?

What does clarity mean
when you don't mean
the words you say?

Did you say anything at all?
Nothing you didn’t already know —
at least, that’s what they say.

“Don’t question and answer yourself,”
they warn.
“It’s just circles
with tangents
that promise escape
but never really leave the center.”

Labyrinth.
Nature of madness.

I think my own reason is flawed
to make sense.

Blinded
by the light of the moment —
so yes,
I can say
it’s dark inside.

— The End —