Mental Health Poetry

Radio Silence

If I tiptoe close to the water's edge

I can see myself in the mirror

The moon is there, too, and so are the stars

But they distort with the night's solemn breeze

I've counted the freckles that dot my nose

- or at least the ones that I think should -

But each night, I get a different number

And each night, the moon grows duller

Sometimes I pinch the moon with my fingers

To try and hold her in place

I squeeze and squeeze, and imagine her bursting-

One million stars escaping into the night

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