there is a stranger living under the throat waiting to pull the cord
the mirror reflects a silhouette that belongs to everyone and no one at all
write down the sound your parent makes when they are deciding whether to love you
you have known that sound since before you had a word for it
a sudden terror moves through the stomach like wild water breaking through rock
you burn the silk hangings down while you are still standing on the woven mat
and then weep at the door because no one came to drag you out
the body remembers every rule it was never told out loud
the afternoon becomes a ledger of small cruelties you wrote yourself
you scatter your belongings across the floor trying to locate an identity
spending money you do not have or driving too fast toward the mountain pass
anything to fill the emptiness that grows deeper after lunch
there is a hypervigilance that never allows the eyelids to close
you press glass into your own palm just to confirm you are still awake
and you look at the person across from you and wonder why they haven’t fled
that emptiness has a circumference you know because you dug it yourself one apology at a time
you sit on the edge of the mattress with your arms wrapped tight around your waist
so exhausted from destroying every small safety you built with your hands
so exhausted from being the only weather in a house made of rice paper
somewhere beneath all of this is a child who learned to read a face before she could read a word
who still checks the forecast in someone else’s eyes before she trusts her own sky
you were taught that love is a test you can still somehow fail
if you became what they kept asking for
pruned back before you could grow in your own direction
trained flat against a fence you never chose
would that finally be enough
you practiced in the mirror, in the car, in the pause between two sentences at dinner
you were handed a mold and told it was good
it did not fit
you stayed anyway
you built a room inside yourself for everything they would not accept
you do not remember when the emptiness became the only room you knew how to live in
you only remember thinking if you carved out enough of yourself there would finally be room for their pride to move in
there wasn’t
there is only a child still standing at the edge of the mattress
still asking the question into the dark
the way you will maybe always ask it
are you proud of me yet
—lyra moon (i kept carving until there was room enough for someone else’s pride, and still no one moved in)
august 26, 2026