Do you remember how I wove the starlight into my eyes, rinsed my hair in the echoes of the moon so I could shine through the night, deep into the vapor of morning,
where the saturation of violent violet, purple passion personified, fades like a single drop of indigo in a vast crystal cistern, everything tinged with a blue deeper than the bottom syllable of your very existence?
Did you think the sun was my enemy, just because I dance to the bassline of darkness? What kind of fool are you, trying to pocket comets and planets without even learning the names of their moons? What kind of place is your pocket? Dark and cramped, protected from the world by flimsy fabric, flayed by your fingers, every time they enter. Nothing precious could live there for long.
What you remember doesn’t matter in the end; I have it all—every memory, every kiss, every heartbreak, every abandonment, every lie is written into the fabric of my being, the text of my mind, and still, I don’t make you my villain.
About the Creator
Harper Lewis
I'm a weirdo nerd who’s extremely subversive. I like rocks, incense, and witchy stuff. Intrusive rhyme bothers me. Some of my fiction might have provoked divorce proceedings in another state.😈
MA English literature, College of Charleston
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Comments (1)
That “pocket comets and planets” line really hit me in a weird, almost uncomfortable way because it’s like you’re calling out someone who thinks they can hold everything without ever understanding it. The way you talk about carrying memories in your body like fabric makes me think of how we try to store the past safely, but it still shapes us. And the last line—“I don’t make you my villain”—felt so raw, like you’re choosing your own peace instead of feeding the story of hurt. Did you write this from a specific experience, or is it more like a feeling you’ve been holding onto for a long time?