the second time i learned to speak
the clerk at the counter called me ma’am
when he handed back my cash
his eyes caught on the neckline of my dress
like a hook in a fish’s mouth
i crushed that cheap paper receipt in my fist for five miles
letting the blue ink bleed into the cracks of my skin
my friend sent a picture of the muddy ditch behind the house
where we used to kill time catching bugs
asking if the old swing was still tied to the branch
i wanted to tell her i had to skin my knees raw
just to crawl out of that yard
but i sent back a single stupid red heart
there is a room inside the sound of my mother’s voice
that i can no longer enter
i stand at the door and hear her on the other side
calling a name that fits no one living
and i do not knock
i wonder if she would recognize the throat asking for her
or if she would just hear a stranger
breathing in the hallway of her house
at night i sit alone in the dark
and spit my own name out into the quiet
waiting until it stops feeling like something i stole
—lyra moon (i chose it because it sounded like a thing that had always been true)
july 27, 2026