They tell me, an old voice from Tunisia, heavy with centuries of safety, “If the full moon loves you, why worry about the stars?”

But safety is a lie we tell the lonely. The proverb makes no sense to the blood running through my veins. Why should I look at the moon? The moon is a ghost. It is a pale, stolen thing, merely borrowing its existence from the brilliance of those far-away stars, those white-hot giants burning fiercely in the dark, cold vacuum of the universe.

To settle for the moon is to settle for a reflection. It is to accept the echo instead of the voice. I do not want a halfway love, a half-a-day love that clocks out when the sun rises. I refuse to inhabit a compromise. The moon may be easy to reach, it may be polite and gentle, but my soul is not polite.

I do not want the moon. Not really.

I want the real thing. I want the terrifying, unadulterated truth of the fire. I want passion that tastes like blood, and a rage so pure it cleanses. I want a love that rips me apart, that dismantles my neat little structures, and then, with trembling, creative hands, puts me back together again.

I am full of ugly inches. I am full of broken, twisted parts that I keep hidden in the dark corners of my being. But I want a love so blinding that it illuminates every single one of those monstrosities. I want to be seen in my absolute nakedness, in my chaos, and I want that fierce, distant star to look at my wreckage and still be unable to stop itself. I want it to shower me with its light, not out of pity, but out of a helpless, cosmic necessity.

I want the stars. Because only the stars burn from the inside out. And I am ready to burn. 🔥

© Beatriz Esmer