Luci D. Moons and Maniacs

[Moons and Maniacs]

Luci D.

[Untitled]

IR

I’m so tired. Exhausted even. But I think sleep is beyond me now.

I look out my window to see the moon looking down at me with a crescent of a smile, simply happy to have company at such an hour. Since an attempt to sleep would be a lost cause at this point, I grab some tea and sit by my window. We hold a conversation, and although one-sided, it is one of the better conversations I’ve had in a while. I tell the moon about all my interactions and struggles here on Earth. People are difficult, and the moon continues smiling its crescent smile, but I take it as a sign of understanding. I talk with the moon like this often, or at least when I can. Then, cutting off my words, the universe, or probably something bigger, flips the switch from night to day and our conversation will have to be continued another night.

“Until next time,” I say. The birds sing a morning song.

[practice makes perfect]

I see him, bouncing his ball, Up, down, up, down then shoot, Straight to touch the stars, Always missing, Never giving up. It seems he’s out there, in the street, With the fading shades of sunset, For eternity. Up, down, up, down. And I wonder, does he count the times he’s bounced his ball, Must be millions and billions and trillions. Up, down, up down, Always missing, Never giving up.

isabel

[our moon waned to crescent] leon

how to say love in so little words. in whispers in letters in hand touching. sneaking out past midnight staring at the sky glancing at the moon in an attempt to fill the void maybe she could give us an answer but she just smiles. she can smell the beers on you yearning to criticize our feelings but she turns around. she wanes to crescent and the new moon arises as if she’s smarter than the last. perhaps this time she’ll stop us

[A Place To Love Myself]

Mahalia

A place to love myself A place to know I am beautiful A place to believe I am not ugly A place to know I do not have to try I do not have to try to impress I do not have to try to look perfect Because I am beautiful. The people that say otherwise Are wrong, The people that say otherwise Do not know me enough to judge me. A place to love myself Because I am beautiful My body is not ugly or fat I am so much more than how I look on the outside A place to know A place to believe I. Am. Enough.

[Moonlit Scars]

Mahalia

Moonlit scars on the little stuffed bear’s face. The stuffed bear—Fiji—walked around the sloppy wet streets of Portland. He made sure he stayed in the shadows, just like his human—Zoey—just to keep safe. He found a bench and crawled under it, making sure he didn’t touch the gum on the bottom. He looked up at the half moon, and thought of Zoey. She had scars in various places because of all her surgeries. The seven-year-old had sewn stitches in Fiji, because she wanted someone to look like her. Fiji looked down at his belly and saw the painless scars, and remembered the crocodile tears streaming down Zoey’s face, her mom by her side, comforting her and sewing more stitches onto Fiji. He looked back at the moon and remembered the feeling of Zoey’s arms around him and her face buried in his fuzz. How he wished he could find her. He knew her mom wouldn’t let her roam the streets at night, so he had to. There was no way he would abandon his human. She’d been through too much, three surgeries in two years, multiple procedures in her seven years of life. Fiji wiggled out from underneath the bench, and waddled down the street. He followed the moon, a warming Presence comforting him. Through the course of many days, he followed the moon in the sky, dark or light. He never lost faith, determination leading his feet. Four days had passed. He was covered in mud and gasoline. His fuzz was matted, but his faith never faltered. Still following the moon, he turned a familiar corner, walking on a sidewalk filled with dead grass and rusty lawn chairs along each house. He walked the length of it and came to a dead end. There it was! The house that brought joy to the entire block. The driveway was covered in sidewalk chalk masterpieces. Zoey’s flower drawings and chalk handprints were smeared on the tires of her mom’s silver minivan. Fiji looked up at the street lamp in front of the bushes and saw a ‘missing bear’

sign. It was him. He wondered how long it had taken Zoey to realize that she had left him on the slide at the playground. Just as he turned around to face the front door, the door opened. He flopped on the ground as a pair of pink and silver twinkle toe shoes hopped down the steps. Zoey squealed with delight as Fiji felt the sticky, paint-covered hands grab him up and hug him tight. Zoey called for her mom, and her crocodile tears fell on Fiji’s scars; he smelled the little girl’s blonde hair – he’d always thought that it smelled like strawberries and chocolate, with a hint of mischief. Zoey’s mom rushed outside alarmed, she thought something was wrong. But as soon as she saw her daughter holding her best friend, she picked Zoey up, balanced her on her hip, and hugged them both. Fiji drank up the stories Zoey told him, about how she had her first procedure without him, and how she put finger paint on the ‘missing’ signs her Mom hung. Fiji was excited for the bath he was gonna get, but he learned a valuable lesson in those four days…the only reason he was there was because of Zoey. He needed Zoey, Zoey needed him. Who else would be there when she got stitches? Who would be the inspiration for Zoey’s career much later in life? As Zoey grew, she learned that her scars were not something to hide, she and Fiji would show their scars as signs of strength, a testimony of their faith , and that you have to be a little afraid to be brave. Zoey soon grew up (much too fast for Fiji’s liking) to be the founder of ‘Brave Scars’, a program that brought stuffed animals to children going through surgeries and procedures. She taught those children about her life, and that their scars were something to be proud of. She eventually grew old, with a loving husband, five children of her own and six grandchildren; her stitches were long gone, but Fiji was still held in her heart. Fiji watched his little human grow old, but she never left him, he was at the top of her closet. She always knew he was there. Fiji knew that his existence was not just for her, it was for any child with scars, physical or emotional. His life was to bring scars to stars.

[Prolonged Thought]

Myst Morgan If you think about anything for long enough it begins to unravel. Perhaps logic is a myth, Only created to give the illusion of form, Illusion of structure, To keep us from slipping into insanity. Some things are better not to think about. Is it unhealthy to force yourself to ignore? But thinking hurts too much. I certainly don’t need the burden of anxiety Prolonged thought brings. But what’s even the point of thought? It’s not like I could change anything anyway. I can’t even fix what’s placed directly in my hands. Why do I think I can fix the world? Why do I think I should fix the world? For now I won’t think. I can’t let myself think. Thought brings nothing but frustration And hopelessness. Wrapped up in plotlines outside of my control. Maybe someday I’ll learn how to think. I’ll learn to accept what I cannot control. I’ll be able to be satisfied with small victories And little changes. I’ll be able to finally enjoy thought.

[An Old House]

Nora VanRees

it was an old house at the end of the road, its paint was peeling off, faded roses bloomed in the front yard, a breath of white against the wet green grass, a willow tree swaying in the pale moonlight.