Crescent Moon and the Hurt Unnamed

They saw a smile but never asked

what cracked behind the curve.

The crescent moon—

a sliver of light

draped in red,

shining like a bruise in the sky—

just like him.

He wore kindness like armor,

but it rusted under ridicule.

Called names—

Emo, Geek, Closeted, Freak.

Bullied by the world,

mocked in the safe space,

silenced at home.

Where emotions were met with,

"Man up. Grow up."

as if crying were a crime

and silence a solution.

He was told his pain was weakness.

That his softness made him pathetic.

That if he wanted to survive,

he needed a thick skin—

while they sharpened their knives

and laughed behind his back.

They told him women are too emotional

but gave no space for men to feel.

They called him a disappointment

when he broke,

then blamed him for breaking.

They said,

"You’re just sensitive."

as if sensitivity were a flaw,

as if rage wasn’t their own legacy

wrapped in silence

and passed down like inheritance.

He kept words instead of weapons,

hoping words would save him.

But when he wrote of sorrow,

they scoffed,

"Stop being dramatic."

When he spoke of empathy,

they sneered,

"You’ll never make it like this."

And when he chose to disappear,

they gasped,

"Why didn’t he say anything?"

Through the epochs of pain

he whispered death like prayer.

Wrote poetry for a world

that would never read him right.

He wanted peace.

He wanted to die—

quietly, invisibly.

But the world didn’t let him go.

It kept pushing, prodding, laughing.

So the sadness fermented.

Softness turned to steel.

He no longer dreamt of dying—

he dreamt of making others

feel the fire he buried.

Calling upon on Goddess Death 

The red crescent watched him that night,

not as a witness,

but as prophecy.

A grin carved into the sky,

curved like a blade

waiting to cut.

He no longer wept.

He no longer begged.

He burned.

Because when you force a boy

to swallow his hurt

long enough—

he starts to bleed rage.

And when the world tells him

his life doesn’t matter,

he might just believe

that no life does.

He did not want to become a monster.

But monsters are made—

by every insult,

every excuse,

every father who taught control,

every system that defended it.

And the moon?

It weeps, too—

red and raw in the sky,

a reminder that even the quietest things

can burn the brightest

before they vanish.