My Gemini Moon / by grace mcgrade


I left bits of myself floating in the Scottish highlands, residing in clouds and groves of green right before dusk. In solitude but woven into everything.

The days of keeping people at arms distance as a means to protect me from the intensity of my own emotions are over. I did this countless times, with the words I did not say and the moves I could not make, because my heart was swollen, clenched like fist, clinging onto wounds I mistook for character.

Sometimes I get afraid that if I become someone’s resting place, it will interfere with my freedom, my desire to live based on intuition and spontaneity- without need for explanation. My need to be constantly reborn. To be treading on new terrain. To have secrets. To be wild.

I find myself torn between an insaccepable appetite for luxury and a simultaneous anarchist repulsion against it, wanting to be deeply spiritual and simultaneously delightfully inebriated and away from everything. I exist in polarity and paradox. I need as much spring air as I can get. I am hungry for irrefutable evidence of the impossible. Language feeds me, and I follow it, like an ethereal fog into the woods, endlessly seeking for the words not yet invented for feelings that still feel foreign.

I am trying to anchor in heaven, at a sick time, in a sick place.

I am eager for new kisses, not ones that are bitter or half full. No, they don’t have to feel like butterflies, or fireworks, but make them lasting. Burning. Searing new perspectives inside of me that sediment and consolidate in the deepest folds of soul.