My fears are real. They come for me at night — when the world is silent but undead. They sit on the foot of my bed and watch me watch them. Sometimes, they speak in a language that although makes no sense in my head, is clearly the same language my heart uses.
My fears are real. They do not harm me when they stay with me but they break me in pieces before the sun breaks the stillness of the night. And they carry with them each piece when the moon has had enough watching.
I am fading. My fears are real. My Self, is only the essence of who I am. I am scattered everywhere and is nowhere here at the same time. My fears are real — even more than me.
To eat your name for dinner means I wake up with the Ocean’s rage in the crevice of my guts. The movement inside crashes into my organs. My heart, reverberates an incomprehensible dissonance of beats and rhythm. My lungs, slowed down by Chaos and Confusion, dance like little girls with two left feet. one. two. three — a waltz gone too fast.
To eat your name for dinner means I hold on to my sheets and cry out in pain as little stars escape my mouth. These stars do not fly out gracefully but fall on my sheets like defeated warriors. I shiver lightly from fatigue and nausea. I do not count theses celestial beauties instead I abandon them without a choice.
Another wave of movement inside me forces me to curl up into a ball. Pieces of the moon in its sheer silvery sheen make its grand exit out in such haste that my tears were not able escape my eyes in time.
A splitting pain and emptiness inside me gives birth to a strange light that stays with me and lingers… long enough to blind me.
I eat your name for dinner and awake throwing up the universe.
Every night I wish only that you would be mine. This I always shyly and cautiously leave hanging in the air. Only the stars and the leaves that rustle by my feet bear witness to my desperation – my pathetic contradictions.
Every night the moon watches me and drowns my plea with its silvery moonlight. I watch my shadows dance beneath the lamppost as I whisper my request out into the world.
The moonlight does not falter. It seeps through my very being. It fills me up and empties me.
Unlike the fragments of light that escape the clasp of leaves and branches, my wish will not reach the Gods.
Every night I whisper your name out into the world in the hopes of having you closer to me. In exchange, a piece of you is taken by the Gods as my own special atonement.
My heart tells me I should stop. My mind urges me forward.
Tell me, will the moon ever run out of light?