i painted my eyelids the shade of a small bird that broke itself against the glass
i dusted the wrists that hold me at night
with the scent of blossoms opening only in vacant places
i carried my assembled self into a storm of noise
where a thousand throats were screaming a single word
until the word was stripped of its skin
they floated around me like angels spun from neon salt
possessing a secret i spent three hours before the glass trying to learn
i tried to hand a stranger a sliver of my voice
just a quiet thread so i wouldn’t dissolve into the air
and they recoiled as though i were begging for something ruined
i asked the water for a glass of water
and the ice cubes just kept dancing in the dark
so i sank my gaze into the glowing blue square of my hands
and waited for a name i would recognize
i left before my dress even realized we were inside
—lyra moon (the song that was playing when i walked out i will never be able to name)
july 25, 2026