My inner child,
barefoot in a burning room,
clutches a paper heart
no one ever tried to hold.

I sensed the shame
poisoning my blood,
flowing through my veins—
a silent flood.

I discarded myself
to sit within the hallowed halls
of the great successes,
wearing masks to match their walls.

I stood tall,
concealing crumbling confidence.

My unhealed inner child
shrieks for validation—
silent screams
for eyes that never turn my way.

My extraordinary foe,
how your anger bleeds
into my life,
ambushing me when I’m frayed and low.

So much time
spent fleeing your grasp.

If winning is the only path
to joy in this rotten place,
then soon I’ll fall
into your fiery embrace.

Attention is what I crave—
but with you, I must remain.

Oh, failure,
bane of my existence—
I suppose this is hello again.

I leave the door open.
I’m not waiting for you, I swear.

Not lying back,
head against the wall,
yearning at every creak in the floorboards
like it might mean
you’ve come back.

I’m not waiting.

But if you poked your head through,
and all the memories came rushing in—
I know I’d forget
every petty grudge
I’ve nurtured
to fill the space you left.

I’m not waiting.

But every second without you
feels like a knife in the back.
Like my body is dissolving
under the weight
of not being enough for you.

I’m not waiting.

But if you walked in again—
the way you always do—
only to disappear,
only to forget me
until the next time you get bored…
I know
I would still welcome you.

I’m not waiting.

But when I see your face,
something in me
melts.

Years of feeling unwanted,
unlovable—
all undone
because your love
has always felt like enough.

Because your love
is all the love I thought I needed.

I say I’m not waiting,
but the door is still cracked.
And my heart still flinches
at every whisper,
every movement,
as if maybe
you’re waiting too.

I’m not waiting for you.

But the only person
I care to let through that door
is you.

Does the moon know
that the girl waits for it—
pining, yearning
for just a glimpse
of its mysterious, untouchable beauty?

Does the moon know
that the girl avoids sleep,
staying awake until dawn
just to admire it
for as long as she can?

Does the moon know
that her heart skips a beat
as the sun sinks low
and the sky darkens to charcoal,
knowing the moon will follow?

Does the moon know
that the stars mean nothing beside it—
that all else disappears
when it rises?

Does the moon know
that the girl loves it—
basking in its glory,
holding on to the hope
that one day,
she will be noticed?

Does the moon know
that she will admire it
for all her life—
clinging to the hope
that she might one day know it?

Does the moon even know
that the girl is there?