bluemoon416

[bluemoon416]

Woke up hurting and confused. Grateful that Saturday me chose to invest in putting Wednesday me in a room with other creatives today. Even if I didn't make any new connections, I got to steep in the energy of the world that brings me excitement and learn more about how this community is centering itself around the creative economy. ❤️

[bluemoon416]

There Are (At Least) Two Sides to Every Story

His

Either way,

the result is the same.

I try to love her

the best way I know how—

but sometimes,

it doesn’t reach her.

And she calls that distance.

But to me, it’s survival.

How did we get here?

She wants the kind of love

that says things out loud.

That digs deep,

names the ache,

shares the soft, sacred parts.

But I was a kid

sleeping in basements and under bridges

Loved, sure—

but only to the extent

that I could be easy.

Manageable.

So I learned early

that safety meant silence.

That being too much

meant being left out in the cold.

A toothbrush on a doorstep.

Now I carry my love

in quiet ways—

in showing up,

in doing the work,

in staying even when it’s hard.

She craves more.

Deserves more.

And I want to give it—

but there’s a locked door

between my chest and my mouth.

Most days, I can’t find the key.

She thinks I don’t feel.

But the truth is,

I feel everything.

It just gets stuck

in the places that never learned

how to release without breaking.

She wants closeness.

Connection that breathes.

And I want that too—

but every time she reaches,

I panic.

What if I can’t hold it?

What if I lose myself again?

I love her in ways

that don’t always translate—

through fixing,

through remembering,

through not walking away

like others did.

But her love speaks in light.

In truth,

in naming.

And mine?

Mine speaks in shelter.

In grit.

In staying through the storm

without saying a word about the weather.

I know she feels alone,

even with me beside her.

I see it in her eyes—

the way she’s slowly retreating

into her own silence

because mine is too loud.

She promised her love would keep me safe.

And I believe it did.

But I’ve never known

how to let safety in

without also preparing for the exit.

Our love still stands.

But it isn’t as safe

as we both hoped it would be.

Still—

I’m here.

Still trying.

Still learning

how to make this

something she can feel

without having to beg for it.

Still trying

to believe

I’m not too much

for staying

and not too little

for being quiet.

[bluemoon416]

Smokescreen

Either way,

the result is the same.

Begging for the bare minimum.

How did I get here?

Am I asking too much,

or perceiving too little?

When the words say “love”

but the energy reads “leave,”

I start to feel like a ghost

In a house that forgot me.

Maybe I’m not asking too much.

Maybe it's the asking that's too much.

Because when love feels like a smokescreen,

I wonder if all I’ve ever been

is breathing in illusions

and calling it home.

When love sounds like a promise

but feels like performance—

when “I’m here”

comes with conditions—

am I the fool for hoping

the tone would match the text?

It’s not the silence that hurts.

It’s the mismatch.

The way you say I’m safe,

but I still have to measure my words.

Tuck the truth into softer shapes

so it won’t be misunderstood.

Love shouldn’t feel like censorship.

And yet here I am,

trying to read smoke

like scripture,

hoping the fog parts

into something solid.

Something real.

I know you love me—

even if your love doesn’t reach my senses.

Even if I have to imagine the warmth of it

from what I’ve harvested of our memories.

I gather scraps of attentiveness,

press them to my chest,

and call it enough.

But some nights, it’s not.

And what’s worst of all

is knowing you’d be sad to read this.

I want to be able to share all of me with you—

but seeing all of me hurts you.

Even if your love is real,

it doesn’t reach all the way

to my knowing.

To where I ache.

To where I wait.

And I know—

this isn’t new.

It’s generational.

Grandma died in December,

and Papa loves her so much

he’s being crushed by her absence.

And I know she knew of his love,

but it's likely it had been decades

since she felt it consistently.

She stayed when the strokes

took his kindness away.

-Or maybe she didn’t.

Maybe this surprise cancer

was the justifiable departure

she’d been waiting for

all those years.

The mercy she'd prayed for.

Maybe I learned silence

watching her swallow it.

Maybe I learned how to stay

a little too well.

I loved the best I could

with the map I was given—

but when is it time

to redraw the lines?

[bluemoon416]

Goodnight, Even If

It’d be nice

to be able to say goodnight.

Not to stir the air between us—

just to let something kind exist

without needing anything back.

I’m not stupid.

I know how to take a hint.

I know when silence

is just silence.

Not a doorway.

Not a delay.

I shouldn't feel lonely

when my bed’s not empty.

But you’d be surprised

how much space can fit

between two people

on a king-sized bed.

Maybe I’m broken

to feel lonely

even knowing I’m loved.

But maybe not.

Maybe I’ve just asked too many times

to be held

and grown tired of the asking.

So I lay here

and write poetry

until my eyelids can no longer hold

the weight

of distracting my mind

from the sensation

of wanting to be held—

in an embrace I don’t have to beg for.

And suddenly, it’s real again,

if only for me—

when I can summon up the feeling

of being surrounded by its warmth

just long enough

to fall asleep.

And hopefully,

there’s no harm in that—

because I don’t know

how I’d get through most nights

otherwise.

So I hold the space.

Even if it’s only mine.

Even if it’s quiet.

Because it was real

to me.

Because it was magic

in me.

So I say it—

not out of hope,

nor of ache,

but just to mark the moment:

Goodnight.

That’s all.

Goodnight.

[bluemoon416]

I meant it when I said it.

[bluemoon416]

Hey.

Yeah?

What's that band?

Which one?

That one I like...

...👀

*folds upside-down over couch* Uhhhhhh...the one...from like a year ago. You were like "oh, you like bla-bla-bla..."

That's the least descriptive you could have been...Sleep Token.

Yass! But see... it worked.

🙄 *shudders*

Why do you hate them?

They're just so slow and soft and... just no.

It's nighttime music...and I am a girl...

*picks up phone to open Spotify."

Fuuuuuuuuuck.

🫠

[bluemoon416]

Tuesday night sappy girly shit.

[bluemoon416]

Not for Your Approval

All day long, I send emails:

Please find attached an updated draft for your review.

Next steps:

Final review and client approval.

Scrutinize my words with your lesser vocabulary.

My art, through your crude, uncultured lens.

"Just use the old graphic—it’s already approved."

Sure.

It also doesn’t match the visual identity I’ve spent nine months crafting—

a story you keep rewriting,

refusing to finalize,

while breathing down my neck about timelines

your own team is delaying.

(Yes, those same edits you’ve been sitting on for two weeks.)

This space will not be that.

It is not for approval.

Not for performance.

Not for compliance with your “mission.”

This is mine.

To say what I’ve swallowed.

To let the words bleed out before they rot inside me.

To offer them to strangers—

not family,

not friends,

not clients,

not anyone who thinks they have a right

to expect a goddamn thing of me.

And I will not seek your approval.

Nor would I expect you to seek mine.

[bluemoon416]

Me, scream singing in the car, as the sun peaks through these lingering clouds.