Wild Moon Child

I learned early

to dim the good parts first.

Not the sadness—

people love a tidy sadness—

but the spark that makes me talk with my hands,

the laugh that spills over the edge of polite.

︿﹀

At dinners, I cut my stories in half

and call it maturity.

I let louder people borrow my punchlines

and pretend I don’t miss them.

︿﹀

You once said I was “a lot,”

like I was a lamp

plugged into the wrong room.

So I became tealight small,

soft enough to hold

without burning anyone’s ego.

︿﹀

But at night

I open my window

and let moonlight find me anyway.

It lands on my face like permission,

And I remember

I was never too bright—

just surrounded by people

who preferred their comfort to my truth.