There’s a moth that keeps trying to land on my heart. I don’t know if it’s lost or in love. Sometimes I think it’s a person; someone who once whispered to me, “Don’t fall asleep yet. The sky’s doing something weird.” I collect weird skies now: in polaroids, in notebooks, in old, grainy photographs. Some of them look like bruised peaches, others the kind of pink that you’d find on scraped knees.
My mom once told me, “You’ll find true love when you’re not performing.” I haven’t stopped performing since she said that. I write about people I’ve never met, but they all have my reflection in the mirror. I give them soft hands and sharp minds and crooked smiles. Sometimes they show up in my dreams and ask me what I want. I never know what to say.
But the moth never lands. Maybe it will one day. And maybe then, I’ll finally feel the humming in my ribcage that everyone says means you’re in love.
