Do you feel yourself tremble, dysphoric lunar boy? Are your knees weak? Can you not breathe? Can you stomach even looking at yourself anymore, mooncalf? Don't take me for a fool, I can see right through you. Your wall is a weak defense, for you cannot hide what you truly feel. Your scars are like seams, where you wish to tear your own skin apart. Your eyes are gateways to sadness I have never before perceived.
On a night when all was calm you had your very humanity torn you like flesh from bones. And now you have recurring dreams, don't you, wolf-cub? Where the world turns black all around you. A menacing white orb- the moon, controller of the mighty sea, and overseer of your sanity- glowing with fear hovers before you. A lifetimes passes. The moon stares you down. It scrutinizes you, taunts you. Dares you to change. Then, as though there is a magnetic pull from high above, the moon ascends at an intensifying pace, tearing you apart in its wake. It leaves you as nothing but ashes floating into the night sky to collide with stars.
You may ask yourself why this would happen to you. Oh, you could ask yourself ad infinitum, ad nauseam. But the answer will never truly be within your grasp. It could never be so simple.
But listen closely and listen well, moon-cursed child. Although you are wrought with excruciating pain and other may never accept you, you will find that somewhere out there is a fool and a lover who will open their arms and heart for only you. Their fiery passion is yours to keep, to warm you as you lay against their chest. Here and only here, with your ear pressed to their chest, assailed by the sound of their beautiful heart which is almost as wounded as your own, your demons will finally know silence.
You see, my dear desolate dreamer, caged in your chest is your lungs, in which air swims to bring life into you with each gasp, each wounded inhale, and each sweet and stuttered breath. Nearby, the heart that resides in the very same chest holds a melodic and poignant rhythm of beats and thuds. This is all the proof that you are alive; that you are loved.
So tremble not, dysphoric lunar boy. Because under your hurt skin, your scars, and your forlorn eyes, you're a lover, albeit moony. So find your fiery lover and put your hand in their hand. For this is not a dirge, this is an ode to your audacity.