Memento On The Moon

I’d leave a small cigar box, cracked, showing faint splinters, buried where no one can touch it or twist it. Inside: a music amp shaped like my ribcage, wound with the ache of fifteen years spent trying to be softer than the world allowed. A torn page from a notebook no one read, scribbled with dreams I wasn’t brave enough to say aloud. A necklace I never wore, too scared it meant I mattered. A mirror that only shows you what you’ve hidden when your hands are shaking too much to lie. Some nights, I wish I could vanish without being gone. But this box stays, proof I felt too much, loved without language, begged for quiet in my mind. Even here, far from Earth, I am still trying to be more than the weight of my own silence.