The seventh moon will strip
itself from the sky if it
means you’ll stop pretending.
It will render its’ scars,
its’ beauty
until there is no light
outside your window;
no guidance to keep you
moving forward.

Love yourself,
in ranges that could
conquer darkness.
Cry on accounts that you are
melancholy, unholy when some
days don’t feel right
to live.

Be you for whatever reason
matters, because tomorrow could
be your last to define the
reason why.