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Moonlight

by Andie Ngeleka about a month ago in surreal poetry
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an ekphrastic

David Bornfriend/Courtesy of A24 Films

i. little

blue is the color of loneliness

the color of finding refuge in solemn

the color of running into brick walls to disappear

for just long enough to hear the sound of your pulse slowing down

before finding eyes that look like yours but only from far away

chase the comfort of silence, silence that holds your voice hostage until someone disarms it

and then the hands around your neck loosen but only for a second so you can hold your breath under water

born again into the same skin you’ve always known only it looks like it’s supposed to

and the scars are pictures of things you don’t remember feeling

blue is the color of cold air sneaking into the bathroom in between the cracks under the window

to set on your bare body and make your heart shiver

blue is the color of the first time he spoke to you, and you weren’t even sure why yet, but it mattered

ii. chiron

blue is the color despair

blue is the color of losing everything before you knew it was everything

blue is the color of growth

growth that leaves you scarred and bruised and covered in someone else’s blood

and it stains your skin forever like a tattoo of your trauma

it stretches as you get older but never so much that it fades

being clean means shedding your skin but you’ve never sat still long enough to become that version of you

the version with unclenched fists in the sand

that listens to the world moving in its quiet madness without so much as touching you

blue is the color of a single moment of sanctity that lasts forever in second

but it’s still long enough to trick you into smiling a smile that’s been hiding between your teeth for your entire life

blue is the color of turning into your own reflection and realizing the cold you feel inside is never going away

iii. black

blue is the color becoming

blue is the color of the mask

blue is the color of acceptance when you’re defeated by your own resilience

when your body becomes the shape of your fears and it’s impossible to remold

the size of your chest is big enough to make a prisoner of your own tenderness

but sometimes enough air sneaks through

like it used to in your bathroom through the cracks under the window

and you remember that water was always home

water was always freedom

so you let yourself cry all the water you need

so you can get the courage to travel back in time to the version of you that you once became, ever so briefly

with unclenched fists in the sand

the breeze never asks you to explain yourself

because you look so familiar, behind the layers and layers of layers

blue is the color of holding your breath to stay alive

blue is little is chiron is black

blue is the color of your skin in the moonlight

surreal poetry

About the author

Andie Ngeleka

Andie Ngeleka is lesbian writer, comedian and filmmaker based in Los Angeles. Her writing has appeared in Gay Magazine, Into More, and HopeIRL. She studied Cinema and Media Studies at USC School of Cinematic Arts.

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