The fall wasn’t pretty in the eyes of falling leaves.
The moon, undressed, unprepared. The night awaits.
You paint me red.
It’s okay.
Who cares if Canvas likes the brush anyway?
The door of trust was open for years.
In the ashes of my home, I will sleep.
The rain falls on open wounds,
So vicious, so cruelly undefendable.
And
The devil you know became alone,
So much
She wears a cross to burn her chest.
The weight of winter on spring.
I need to know,
How do flowers bloom in dry, hopeless, cold woods?
The writer lost herself in the obsession of pain,
Wrapped around the words she could not tell.
One, twelve, seventeen, twenty-one.
Another night, the next spring, she tries,
She tries to stay.

I write another to the void,
just 'cause I don't know what else to do with my day.

Declaration of emptiness.
A taxidermy bird.
A dark room in the core of the sun.
Two legs on a wheelchair watching a marathon.
A soldier in a war who's lost his sword.
Devil on his knees, praying to go back to Eden.
A dead man's soul asking for another chance.
Moon, jealous of the stars that can shine themselves and don't have to beg.
Mistake after mistake, you can't control your restless hand.
You can't take back the clock's hands.
Reading a book over and over again, expecting it ends different.
A king of a small land, in front of Alexander the Great.
Mom, would Dad come back home again?
Trying to light a flame under the rain.
An apple tree hating the spring, for it’s like the dryness—
for it feels the fruits came from hurt,
but the hurt comes from itself.
The wind became mad, so she hit her head on every wall she saw,
but they call her wild in the end.
Hope was just a name you could choose for your kid.
Giving up is the only way.
Giving up is the only way.

I dream in lunar craters
on the bright side of the moon.

My vocal cords, a reception hall
made of copper and gold—
the brides, in black dresses,
hostages in a chokehold,
waiting for a moment to escape.
And when they do,
their dance fades slowly in the vastness of the sky,
as they get lost trying to find their other one.

I tell myself:
if you could fly, you would have the same fate.
Even with the speed of light, you would never impact an ear.

If you want to dream, dream of what you can see; it's still just a dream—
but it feels more real.

So I looked above, into the night sky,
and I stared at the dark parts of the moon,
and I dreamed.
Albategnius.
Langrenus.
Aristarchus.
One.
Twelve.
Sevent­een.
Twenty-one.

In my dream,
the moon had bones
softer than our skin.
And she heard
as I screamed,
and she cared.
And all the brides
made it to the other side.
They danced till sunrise,
as I swallowed my own throat.

So like a wolf,
I wait till the sky turns dark,
and I howl
as the moon takes my hand
and tells me to let go of the metals
I hold deep inside of me.

keep me in your chokehold
till, in the night,
lunar craters set me free.