learning how to stay
for years i have carried the child i was
like a pocket full of broken glass
learning to bleed without making a sound
swinging between loving someone like a religion
and tearing them down to keep from being left behind
i drive too fast into the dark just to feel the road
waiting for the drop that always comes
every friendship feels like standing on thin ice
a sudden shift in the air and i am already mourning
the way they will inevitably walk away
my chest is an empty room where the light dies quickly
and the anger arrives like a house on fire
uninvited, unpredictable, burning everything down
until i am only ash and a ghost sitting in my own lap
standing at the edge of the lake this morning
the clouds hung low and heavy, wool-thick, pressing down
and something in that gray weight matched something behind my own eyes
a place where nothing tender survives for long
where every sunrise feels like a false promise
then the overcast skyline split open
not a gentle sun but a blinding shaft of gold
striking the tall glass towers through the dark
it hit the cold brown water and made it burn
turning every jagged wave into a spill of diamonds
a sudden reckless beauty rising straight out of the gloom
holding the entire lake in a hold i couldn’t name
and something in me caved under the weight of it
because the light didn’t wait for the clouds to clear
it just poured right through the center of everything pressing down
straight into the parts of me that never asked to be seen
i am still scared of the dark and the dropping temperatures
i am still terrified of the people i love leaving me behind
and tomorrow the emptiness might come back to claim the room
but this morning the city was built of fire and cloud
and for the first time in as long as i can remember
i stood on the shore with tears cutting through the salt on my face
watching the light drown the dark, and letting it
—lyra moon (we don’t have to stop bleeding for the light to find us whole)
August 24, 2026