The Moon is tidally locked, which is a fancy way of saying that she cannot turn her head. We tell her she is beautiful, but she wonders what it means when we've only seen one side — the one that shines the brightest. She worries what we would think if we only knew how much she loves her darkest self.
self love
Some Days
Some days
I give so much of my love away
that I forget to leave any
for myself.
Some days
I give so much of myself away
that I become a walking
human-shaped absence,
defined
only by the space
of where other people are not.
Some days
I have no one to give to
and in that freedom I expand
so far
that I lose
all
cohesiveness.
Some days
I cannot remember who I am
only all of the things I should do
and all of the things I have failed to do.
Some days
I make lists about myself
so that I cannot forget:
what I’ve done,
what I like,
what I want.
Some days
I look at those lists
and wonder
where that person went.
Some days
I am certain
that some crucial part of me
has died
taking with it:
memories
and dreams
and desires
and
and
and
Some days
I want to be struck by lightning —
not to die,
but on the off chance
that I might reanimate.
Or at least
feel that rush of electricity
down my spine.
Some days
I can pretend that I’m okay,
end this on a note about
hope.
Some days
I give so much of my love away
that I forget to leave any
for myself.
Photo by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash
Amy Notdorft 