That Night, the Moon Forgot My Name

When I was small,
my voice carried like a bright thing—
a child’s easy spark,
quick to leap from my tongue
into anyone’s waiting hands.
Nothing in me knew how to hush.
But then there was that night—
the one the moon still watches
through half-closed lashes,
as if afraid to see too clearly.
I remember the sky bending low,
cupping its dark hands around my mouth,
stealing the warm shape of my breath
as if it belonged to the wind instead of me.
A strange quiet pressed against my teeth,
sliding in where sound should’ve lived.
Vines—
thin as whispers,
quick as instincts—
wound themselves around my limbs,
rooting me to the earth
with a softness that felt like betrayal.
I lay there,
emotionless,
breathless,

sleepless—
as still as a shadow pinned beneath glass.
And I wanted to be a wolf.
God, I wanted that.
To throw back my head
and crack open the night
with a howl that would shatter everything.
To tear the silence from my throat
before it learned my name.
But my voice—
quick, bright, fearless—
had already slipped away,
a runaway star blinking out
in a forest that did not echo back.
All that remained was the watching—
me above me,
hovering like a forgotten lullaby,
searching the dark for the sound
I once carried so easily.