when you told me you were tired
my brain panicked and built a fire
i mistook the heavy in your voice for an exit
and so i began to pack away every fragile piece of myself
promising to lock the doors and throw away the keys
before you even had the chance to leave
you asked for rest and i gave you a eulogy
i folded my excitement like a sharp clean knife
and buried it deep inside my chest where it could only cut me
i thought if i made myself invisible enough
if i apologized until my mouth was full of dust and gravel
i could somehow save us from the mess i made
i watch you try to carry your own exhaustion
while i keep handing you the leaden weight of my shame
i was so afraid of bruising you
that i made you stay awake in the dark
just to hold my hands and convince me
that i was still allowed to exist in your life
this morning my chest feels bruised from the inside out
i went into the warm yard and talked to the trees
i begged them to tell me how to stay rooted in the earth
without breaking every gentle thing i touch
i stood there crying into the quiet grass
wondering why my love always feels like a accident
i just wanted to build you a softer landing
i wanted to give you a place where the world couldn’t hurt you
and instead i made you bleed to keep me whole
i am so sorry for making my heart a burden you had to carry
when all you ever needed from me
was permission to close your eyes
—lyra moon (the tree doesn’t weep when the wind breaks its shade, it simply remembers how to grow where the sun still falls)
august 4, 2026