WHERE THE MOTHS LEARN TO BREATHE
- Mar 7
- 1 min read
By Salem Youngblood
I slit my skin to keep myself alive.
Pain was a promise. The blade, a language.
Every slash a prayer that said, I am here. I am here. The
metal became fluent when my tongue failed. Its whisper
held my trembling hands. Its sting reminded me that I had
not yet faded away.
At first, it was only blood— that
faithful flood, warm and certain.
But then, petals. Pale and trembling.
Blooming through the red, as if grief could flower.
They smelled faintly of iron and mercy. I
traced their withering down across my wrists,
soft reminders that even pain can bloom if
watered long enough.
Then came the moths.
Soft, gray bodies writhing beneath my skin,
their wings dusted in the ash of old prayers.
They wriggled through the cuts, searching
for the night, their flutter a hymn I never
quite learned.
Some stayed buried, their wings beating slow
against the inside of my ribs. Others forced
their way out, leaving trails of silver dust and
silence.
I kept cutting. Not to die— but
to give them passage.
To let the things inside of me breathe.
Each moth took a little more of me when it left.
Until one morning,
I felt them still and settle, their
wings folding like forgiveness
against the seams of my veins.
Now, I no longer need the blade.
The moths keep the ache alive, their
whispers gentle, relentless.
They remind me:
the body remembers everything—
and sometimes, it learns to heal by
making beauty of the wound.