Rewritten In Moonlight

I wince and blink away my stupor as I rise from sleep. The moonlight burns against my skin. Its light is far from gentle, rather, it feels like a flame pressed against my thoughts, forcefully brightening everything it touches.

It crawls over my walls, my ribs, my heart, my mind… all the parts of me I taught to stay dim in order to survive.

I try to run from its omnipresence, but it follows, as if determined to illuminate even my denial.

And yet there is something in the burning that feels almost like repair. Pain not only as destruction, but as a slow undoing of what was already broken inside me. It stands there, rewriting me in silver, until I begin to realize I have mistaken burning for the sensation of being seen.

Its quiet violation of my darkness leaves me exposed, and I come to wonder if I was ever whole without it. It is almost humiliating, confronting the truth that I am falling in love with the moon.

Perhaps my approach was wrong. Why run?

If the moon reflects light onto me, then I will not only receive it, but I will reflect back.

So I let it gaze into me, and I smile, because I know that even through the burning, it can feel me gazing back.