A moth came to me
late at night.
Flying
through cold and dark
looking
for light and warmth.

They crave the comfort
of a cozy room,
while the world sleeps.
Yet something so sweet
hides a burning gloom.

Why do you yearn
for that feeling you'll never earn?
Why do you keep seeking the light,
my butterfly of the night?

I am nervous.
I feel the moths in my belly,
The kind that make you sick.
The kind where you are worrying
But have not been given the reason to.
I am worried that I love them.
I am nervous that they will break me.
I am scared that they will wake up,
And see me as unworthy.
Unworthy of being called beautiful.
Unworthy of their presence.
Unworthy of their love,
And maybe I am.
They are so good to me,
More than I could have asked for.
More than I could have dreamed of.
I wished for someone to love me for me.
To see me as something special,
But I never have been.
I am not the golden child.
I am not remarkably intelligent.
I do not have a special talent.
I am remarkably unremarkable,
And maybe I never have been worthy.

They say a butterfly cannot see its own wings,
But I can—
The mirror shows me that I’m a moth, not a butterfly.
As if it’s a cruel joke on me.
I stare and stare at the mirror,
Hoping and praying that it’s not how it looks.
I hope and pray that nobody can see me,
But they do—
Because that's the truth
But they do—
Not with admiration, but disgust and pity.

Glass-winged moths hover,
opal figs drip milky dusk,
stars hum, ripe with light.

I walk through hallways
White lights, Marble floors,
And portraits on the walls
Of girls covered in moths
The contrast to their eyes
Resting on their lips like morning dew
Drawing up tears, as if nectar

I think through hallways
Many have stated that
A moth is drawn to a flame
But I recently learned
A moth is drawn to celestial lights
And though a flame can mimic celestial lights
It is not a celestial body

All the girls are celestial bodies
And all celestial bodies are covered in moths

☆
drinking air like flame
a moth inside a lantern
the passion in pain
☆
burning desire
the rapture of heat
self immolation
☆
acutely consumed
and terminally alive
chronic thoughts of love
☆

perhaps the moth
simply doesn't know
the strength of
its own wings
but the way it flutters
seemingly erratic
        in its choices
never straight forward
        in its direction
can be infuriating at times
as those silken sails
appear to force it
where none expect it to be
in disjointed circles
often far off course
only occasionally
will it find itself
exactly where it should be
whether accidentally
         or by design
its every path is filled
with calculated corrections
revisions and redress
in order to reach
its intended
that source of light
one way or another

It is late, bedtime,

there's a waft around the lamp --


a cloud of white moths.