there was a church
that smelled like candlewax and old certainty
and i was small inside it
carrying something no one had named for me yet
a man with god on his collar
saw what everyone else was trying to press flat
called it beautiful
and i thought
this is what it feels like to be found
he asked me what i wanted
who i wanted
what i imagined doing with my wanting
and i answered because someone was finally asking
because the cold outside had lasted my whole life
warmth can be a lie
the body does not know this
the body only knows
it was cold and then it wasn’t
first it was questions
then it was his hands guiding mine somewhere
i did not understand
then the somewhere became a lesson
then a habit
then a thing i could not find the edges of
he was an old man
and i was a child
and what he put in my hands
and then my mouth
and then the rest of me
was not god
though he said it was close to god
though he said god was pleased
i was glass
and he pressed too hard
and kept pressing
for years
until the pressing felt like weather
just the way things were
i think i pointed the way
for others who walked like me
soft-footed in a world of stone
and the guilt of that has roots
that go down past memory
past language
into something that just aches
he said god was watching
and god looked like him
and punishment looked like silence
so i became very good at silence
i built a boy out of borrowed parts
put him out front
let him take the weather
while i waited somewhere back and small
learning to breathe through a keyhole
learning to be no one
so no one would come looking
the man died
and took nothing with him
left all of it
right where i was standing
i am not who he made me
i want you to know that
i was already there
before he learned my name
the girl in me was not his to find
or keep
or use as a reason to come closer
she was mine
she has always been mine
and she survived
not because of what happened
but despite it
and despite it
and despite it again
—lyra moon (the glass boy
there was a church
that smelled like candlewax and old certainty
and i was small inside it
carrying something no one had named for me yet
a man with god on his collar
saw what everyone else was trying to press flat
called it beautiful
and i thought
this is what it feels like to be found
he asked me what i wanted
who i wanted
what i imagined doing with my wanting
and i answered because someone was finally asking
because the cold outside had lasted my whole life
warmth can be a lie
the body does not know this
the body only knows
it was cold and then it wasn’t
first it was questions
then it was his hands guiding mine somewhere
i did not understand
then the somewhere became a lesson
then a habit
then a thing i could not find the edges of
he was an old man
and i was a child
and what he put in my hands
and then my mouth
and then the rest of me
was not god
though he said it was close to god
though he said god was pleased
i was glass
and he pressed too hard
and kept pressing
for years
until the pressing felt like weather
just the way things were
i think i pointed the way
for others who walked like me
soft-footed in a world of stone
and the guilt of that has roots
that go down past memory
past language
into something that just aches
he said god was watching
and god looked like him
and punishment looked like silence
so i became very good at silence
i built a boy out of borrowed parts
put him out front
let him take the weather
while i waited somewhere back and small
learning to breathe through a keyhole
learning to be no one
so no one would come looking
the man died
and took nothing with him
left all of it
right where i was standing
i am not who he made me
i want you to know that
i was already there
before he learned my name
the girl in me was not his to find
or keep
or use as a reason to come closer
she was mine
she has always been mine
and she survived
not because of what happened
but despite it
and despite it
and despite it again
—lyra moon (the boy was a shield, the girl was the whole time)
april 27, 2026)