I talk shit to the stars about the moon and when the glow hits me in the darkness, I feel guilty. I guess it lights my way whether I’m worthy or not. Lately, steam rolls off my skin. I’m the burning coals and everyone else feels like rain. I can’t keep warm without burning out. And if I had a hand to catch me, I’d hold onto it. Let my calloused palms feel softness for the first time in a long time. If I left tomorrow they’d all say she was some sort of saint, and that scares me the most. You count the repetitions in my breathing and tell me how healing really works. Sometimes when I roam for too long, they chant, “lonely girl walking” and I coil back into myself. I lost some spark along the way- but that was inevitable. That’s a result of the bad things happening. That’s girlhood leaving. That’s the final bow. I wish I could run back to my old self. She had a moment of freedom. She held the pieces. She gave it her all. She took the moon for granted.