33 /NEED YOUR LOVE SO BAD
FLEETWOOD MAC
Moths are in love with the moon.
It’s their map to the sky.
Their anchor.
Their guide.
But then we replaced the moon’s glow
with cheap lights and lies?—
porch bulbs, flames,
streetlamps, and neon signs.
And moths can’t tell the difference anymore,
spiral on anything that feels real,
then crash into the wrong thing.
That’s the part they don’t put in poems.
That’s the tragedy.
Moths die not from craving,
but from confusion.
They were just trying to get home.
Maybe that’s the truth of us, too.
We think anything that shines brighter
must be the real thing.
We keep mistaking a kitchen bulb
for the moon.
Even if it’s not.
Even if it burns.
Even if it hurts.
Even if it kills.
The wrong thing still feels better
than being lost in the dark.
Now I’m half-frozen, lungs sucking on frost, watching cigarette embers glowing from neighboring stoops like distant stars—a lonely, city girl on a cold November night, chasing whatever’s lit after her sky’s gone black.
