Someone dared me to post the things I write and put away. Things that are too raw or too private or club-footed monstrosities. And so this, written in May:

For the past month I have been having this pretend relationship with the moon. I pretend it is in love with me, and I certainly am in love with it. I know this is not real, the moon doesn’t talk to me, doesn’t call me on the phone, we don’t have dinner together, we surely don’t have sex.

I have normal days. I don’t act like I am carrying this crazy story inside me. I wake up, I go to work. I see friends, I run errands, I take care of life. But at night, when I am done with all that, I think I might see him in my sky. Or I think I can tell he has been there. For a second the connection feels real, he really has peeked into my window, he really does know I exist, I really do matter.

Then I burn with shame at my fiction. This little story gives me such huge comfort, just for a moment, I am ashamed at how important it is to me. In that minute it is so absurd, so lonely, I am so absurd, so lonely, that I don’t recognize myself.