The moon was still.
Perched on the edge of the horizon like a child on the edge of a swimming pool, bathed in orange.
We all at some point believed the moon followed us on car journeys, like we believed in monsters under our beds or imagined creatures following us outside the car window.
The winter breezes are cold and sharp.
I find myself in my mid-twenties, in the passenger seat, wishing the moon was following me,
Because it’s easier to replace trauma with something— anything familiar to who you were and what you knew before.
It’s dark now,
I’m drunk now, and the moon is high.
The city lights shine like the burning stars against the night.
I sway along in my seat to the same heartfelt 90s hip-hop tracks I’ve been listening to for the past twenty-four years,
Healing, recovering, repairing.
Through hazy eyes, we drive past a neon sign quoting “I get knocked down, but I get up again”,
And I remember, that’s what I’ve been doing all this time.
I am strong.
I am one of the strongest people I know, and I wouldn’t trade the pain for what I’ve learned.