the things i don't talk about.

what only the moon knows

content warning: mentions of suicide, depression and blood* (briefly) 

i feel distant; like my body is not my own; like someone who is destined to make me destroy everything i have worked for has possessed me. i think back to when i began my journey, and how i crave to be back in those trenches. because as long as it was me alone, i had control over the destruction of my life. now i am different. i do not have control over the memories; i cannot go back two years ago and stop myself from opening the door that has lead me down this path.

labels and labels and medication and medication and treatments and tears and fights and blood.

now when i say i am venom, they do not fear and cower away; they take my hand and walk my path with me until i can stand on my own again. i'm sick, and this sickness will never be cured, it is in my blood- as it is in my mother's and her father's and her sister's, and how it'll be in my son's and my daughter's- it will tower over me until i rejoin the stardust that made me.

nobody has truly seen me at my lowest. i keep that part of myself hidden, even thought they tell me they will be there for me, a part of me is still untrusting. the moon knows, however, how bad it has gotten.

Selene, the greek goddess of the moon, my one companion. i imagine Her throne, a hauntingly beautiful thing made from the light of the stars and with silver crafted by humans for Her. She has looked down from where She sits, watched me at my lowest and has stayed. as i walked out of my house that night, murmuring to myself like a possessed thing, not human but not entirely unknown. She saw as i walked and walked, my feet soaking wet, hair a mess, shirt filled with snot, and pleading over and over again: reverse time, please. i was a child once again with a broken doll in my hands fearing the effect of my cause. only this time, i had uttered what i swore i would never say again.

She watched as i fought myself, and merciful as She is, my brother ran after me. i was back at that beach house, the one hundreds of miles away, but i was there. only this time, i had been the ones to spill my secrets from the deepest parts of my stomach.

"haz lo que te de la puta gana," he screamed then, i ran. he did not follow.

"quiero matarme, no quiero vivir," i screamed now, i ran. he followed this time.

the one who taught me not to share my feelings, now begged me to come home and talk. i did not say no.

She watched from above; She has never been scared of my roughness.