“Lunar Shatters” by Melissa Broder

I read this poem yesterday and just had to share it with you all, sort of as my Holiday gift to you. Hope you enjoy!


I came into the world a young man
Then I broke me off
Still the sea and clouds are Pegasus colors
My heart is Pegasus colors but to get there I must go back
Back to the time before I was a woman
Before I broke me off to make a flattened lap
And placed thereon a young man
Where I myself could have dangled
And how I begged him enter there
My broken young man parts
And how I let the mystery collapse
With rugged young man puncture
And how I begged him turn me Pegasus colors
And please to put a sunset there
And gone forever was my feeling snake
And in its place dark letters
And me the softest of all
And me so skinless I could no longer be naked
And me I had to de-banshee
And me I dressed myself
I made a poison suit
I darned it out of myths
Some of the myths were beautiful
Some turned ugly in the making
The myth of the slender girl
The myth of the fat one
The myth of rescue
The myth of young men
The myth of the hair in their eyes
The myth of how beauty would save them
The myth of me and who I must become
The myth of what I am not
And the horses who are no myth
How they do not need to turn Pegasus
They are winged in their un-myth
They holy up the ground
I must holy up the ground
I sanctify the ground and say fuck it
I say fuck it in a way that does not invite death
I say fuck it and fall down no new holes
And I ride an unwinged horse
And I unbecome myself
And I strip my poison suit
And wear my crown of fuck its
Also, I highly suggest that you all follow Melissa Broder on Twitter, if you have one. And if you don’t, I suggest getting one just so that you can follow Melissa Broder. That’s what I did, anyways.
Here are some gems from her Twitter account:
glad that nurture fucked me up and not just nature
brb, dismantling my belief system
roll up 2 the club in a vague feeling of impending doom

I hate men.

I fear I’m falling into the trap
bitter bra-burning “that’s not what feminism is” claptrap-mousetrap

but what’s the alternative?
Loving them? Loving the rape, holdingdownforcingdown-pillage-penetration—blood+bones+brains?

Should I love you, men? Are you worth it?

Are you really worth it when you
you hurt me/you hurt her

But don’t worry cause it’s all part of the thrill: cockdrip-powertrip
so you can rest your foot on our cracking backs

you really can;
you are man.

(((how can I love?)!)…)

Lie to me.

Lie to me depraved heart.
Whisper nonsense of faded faces,
bring back warmth
to a world now tasteless.

Stop the blood from coursing
through my veins.
Pump backwards!
Please, lead me back there again

to a time before I learned
those aged lessons for mine eyes.
How to break.
How to cry.

If you have to lie,
I don’t mind, my love.
I’ll hide in your smile—
forever  live in those lines.

A Lesson

I learned a lesson when I was young,
and I lost my bracelet to the hungry sea;
and I watched the white froth of waves
slink away with my sunshine yellow beads.

I learned the art of letting go. I washed
my newly, bare wrists in the deep blue sea
and walked away, nary a tear, now well
versed in how to forget what used to be.

I learned how to give up on lost pencils
and pens as I grew older and wiser.
I let my “mature” mind forget old toys,
playground friends and bicycle tires.

But now at the pinnacle of my success
when I’ve learned all I can and all I’ll need,
I can’t.
It seems the art of losing is not for me.

With you, it seems my skills have diminished
for I cannot forget you and I cannot walk away
I have forgotten how to give up; I have forgotten
how to let go—and so—
your memory I will always retain

Ebb and Flow

Let’s get a boat and leave our good byes at the door
for the only parting gift that I could possibly accept anymore
is sailing with you, watching the waves always come back to the shore.


Weekend Trifextra challenge: Inspired by all of the poetry entries we’ve had recently, we challenge you to write a poem of your own in either 33 words, 3 lines or 3 stanzas.

The Underdog of Beauty

Spirals of beautiful hardship are overlooked
for the white beds atop and small wrists below,
but, on further glance, these indentations that
swiftly turn and branch just so

when the fingers are stretched straight
like the slender trunks of deep dark trees,
the indents swerve and curve in unending
motionless circles that the lines can never flee,

like gnarled pathways etched into flesh,
drawn like spider webs in grains of sand
that will grow bulbous and grotesque with time, but
now it will help its fingers bend to hold my tender hand.


I saw a picture of a famous musician, and oddly enough I was taken aback by how beautiful his knuckles were. I felt so strange that I had to write a poem about how knuckles are the underdog of beauty.

Hope you like it!