Tonight,
the moon remembers,
slowly weaving itself into cycles,
my stomach churns
an empty ocean of regret.
 

I build barriers of delays,
of postponements,
overlooking due dates
and expiration tags,
breathing endless apologies
for not measuring up to expectations.
My mind runs in knots
and bleeding maps
of unfamiliar territories.

I’ve lived this skin 
6,000 days,
picked apart my insecurities.
assembled and reassembled memories,
retraced every detail
of these walls,
the ceiling,
my palms.
 

Synaptic vesicles release
hundreds of neurotransmitters,
flowering dendrites
deciphering messages
of long absence
like the way my body
configures formulas
of pretending
and disappearing.

Tonight,
I will forget
the way you described me
as walls,
as bricks,
as censored phrases.

I’ve calculated the patterns of our conversation,
the pendulum swing of your words,
unconscious observations
(it’s a form of self-torture),
my shaky voice
trying too hard iron out my edges.
Unspoken thoughts are an imprisonment
and my lungs are chained
to the anchors of time.

Tonight,
I’ll let myself sink into
the craters of my shortcomings,
like the moon,
remembering to give myself
new meanings
as I fall back into
well-worn cycles.