The moon’s light wasn’t as loud as the blazing rays coming from the sun were, always second place too—trying to heal after the damage had already been done. It was never enough to make the painful memories burned into my retinas fade away. Although very lightly, I began to resent it once I saw my muscles react without my input. Running, hiding, shielding from its rays. Screaming at the burns, cursing at the sun, my own body reacting in hopes of reducing the severity of the inflicted sears onto my skin.

It never worked. I was the constant inferiority in their orbit, reminded that only they were the star, the body with supreme authority by any means necessary.

I began to believe its philosophies with enough conditioning. The chilling feeling without the warmth of sun became too unbearable, goosebumps making me itch until underneath my nails were scarlet, eventually internalising the darkness and becoming an inconsequential mess that knew only failure. Only after the immense shivering and clinging to scarred skin would I crawl back to the scalding blaze of the sun. As long as it meant feeling warm again. 

The cool light of the moon was calm, awakening yet a sensation unlike the absence of the sun. I clung to it like a lifeline during times like these—even if it wasn't much. She was the silver lining to it all, my source of consolation and insight when I began to mature. I inherited her intelligence eventually, learning familiar roads that keep ending up at the same destinations, passing the same lakes and trees whenever she knew that the following day would be too hot.

So naturally in my older age I began to see patterns when solar flares would arise. They often come from a place of regret and lack– attempting to heat up spaces while its mass seems hollow from the inside. Her words of wisdom rang inside my head and became law even as the nights got shorter.

So why hasn't everything been fixed?

I have never known or understood how old habits die hard until now–joyous to my naivety. Outbursts felt like infernos without the serenity of the moon–scorching off layers upon layers of skin at a time. And ah, the double edged sword of having an awakened mind: accusatory expressions firing right back and the body becoming my own betrayal on the grounds of reflexes, of course they’d only fan the flames. See, the Sun knew his way around defiants, people who wouldn't conform–he’d been threatened, questioned. 

So really he had no issue with playing morally grey cards if it meant he stayed on top.

During the dark days, the tidal wave of failure after a small mistake could be my breaking point. The absence of the sun forging whispers in the shadows about what could've or should’ve been, yet am not and may never be. On the really dark days, my own existence becomes jarring, and suddenly the breaching of skin turns into clawing at my throat, willing myself away with a strength until the pressure behind my eyes becomes too great and my lungs burn for air. I was never sure how this urge came about, but the sharp aches and burns throughout my body seemed enough to overcast the deeper pain within.

Yet even through the dismissal, the burns and all, I see a version of me, small hands and feet, clad in a shirt that would drape over my knees. She waddles out to play after shutting a door behind her while clutching at wilting daisy chains and a worn teddy bear, eager to get rid of the chill if it means feeling the warmth of the sun kissing her skin once again.