The Darkness Won't Hurt Me

The darkness won’t hurt me.

The slivers of light will—

sharp as a knife through the gap between the curtains.

There is something in the starkness of illumination,

an uneasy surety that throws me off.

I like it when the light is dimmed,

when the moon stands stubbornly before the sun,

providing a polite outline,

eclipsing the feelings that there’s no one around.

The glow from your phone

lights up in blue, a portion of your nose,

and reflects in your glasses: an Instagram post.

More to come, that insatiable hunger

to illuminate more and more,

to uncover the remnants of the unknown,

buried deep for us not to find.

And yet, we excavate and mine, and from the depths below

find diamonds and crystals—a forbidden sight.

They were never meant to be brought to light.

With this new illumination comes a greed—

a familiar greed, I suppose.

Now, no one seems to bat an eye

at the blinding bursts of entitlement and pride.

I sat in the darkness for most of the day.

I had to keep the curtains drawn, the tube light off.

I used to joke about my love to photosynthesize,

but now I can only tolerate the dim glow of fairy lights.

Any more, and my head seems to hurt.

It seems the universe has heard me.

It’s been getting darker faster than it did before.