She used to watch the moon from her dimly lit bedroom window,
pretending to sleep,
trying to keep her stories in order,
so that she wouldn’t slip on the shame of her real reflection.
The moon knew the truth,
sending her to sleep with her soothing stare,
the way her own mother would,
if she had been given the chance.
The girl would wake in the morning,
her pillow painted with the pain of her betrayal,
back to the real world,
so unsettled in her own skin, and her own truth.
Sometimes we meet in the moonlight,
as I stare from my window at the bright sky,
always shaming myself,
even when I say that I’m fine with how I turned out.
I want to tell her to be kinder to herself,
because she’s just a child,
not a monster,
not a deviant,
but we are years apart,
and my pleas are just echos that fade away before they reach her.