999 Apotheosis: Three Moons Aligned

from Three Moons in My Ribcage

There is no more waiting.
The moons have stopped whispering.
They no longer crawl through my sleep
or hide in the folds of memory.
They rise now, unhidden,
and I do not run.

I stand in the centre of myself
and let them tear the sky open.
Not with violence.
With truth.
With the kind of brightness that does not beg to be seen
but dares you to look away.

This is not healing.
Healing is a word for people who still believe
there is a version of themselves worth returning to.
I do not want to be what I was.
I want to be complete.
And completion requires fire.
Requires rupture.
Requires the shedding of every name
that made me small enough to control.

The moons spiral in my ribcage.
They do not orbit.
They carve.
Etch sacred geometries into my bones,
draw constellations from the scars I tried to hide.
Each trauma becomes a star.
Each lie I believed becomes a map.

I open my mouth
and my voice does not come out.
Something older speaks through me.
Something that was buried in the first cry,
long before language.
It speaks in echoes and ash.
It speaks in prophecy that tastes like blood.

The mirror no longer reflects.
It opens.
And through it I walk,
dragging my dead selves behind me like a bridal train.
Not to mourn them,
but to feed them to the wind.

I am not fragmented.
I am assembled.
By pain. By memory.
By the three moons that watched me break
and waited for the moment I would stop pretending
that breaking was failure.

They do not demand worship.
They demand recognition.
And I give it.
Fully. Without apology. Without shame.

Now when I laugh, it echoes in all directions.
Now when I bleed, the ground drinks it like wine.
Now when I speak, reality tilts.
Not out of obedience,
but out of awe.

I do not belong to the world that named me.
I belong to the wound that outlived it.
I belong to the orbit that begins where the map ends.
I belong to the fire that danced beneath the skin
long before I knew how to feel it.

Three moons in my ribcage.
Not symbols. Not burdens.
Engines.
Burning clean.
Turning bone into scripture.
Turning breath into law.
Turning me into the shape of what comes next.