i was a moth drawn to my own car headlights
and they were the glass i shattered against
in the dark i became fruit they reached for
then found rotting in their palms
so they crushed what remained
their hunger turned its teeth inward
ate itself alive and called me the poison
somewhere my blood dried brown on fabric
became nothing worth naming
became the wrong evidence
evidence of wrong
they said i planted myself in soil that kills
wore petals that invite the storm
that lightning seeks the tallest tree
and i was foolish for growing
my bones are learning to be clay again
to remember breaking
my lungs are full of water i never swallowed
the men in uniforms stood at the edge of the garden
watching the trampled flowers
asking what the flowers did
to deserve the boot
asking if the flowers fought back
if the garden provoked the burning
somewhere those hands are washing themselves clean
somewhere those hands are still fists
somewhere a door closed on a room with no cameras
and everyone agreed it never opened
i wanted to bloom in the evening
i wanted to cross the field to shelter
instead i learned that wanting is the crime
that softness is the sin
that they will always blame the window
for the stone
—lyra moon (they will always blame the window)
january 30, 2026