Prose | Jianing

Bleeding Under the Crescent

Tonight, under the waxing crescent,

I began to bleed.

Not from pain,

but from something sacred —

a shift, a knowing, a quiet alignment.

The timing was not random.

The moon was growing,

and something inside me was letting go.

A threshold.

A pause.

A soft release.

And in that quiet moment,

I heard something say:

"She’s gone now — the one who stayed too long."

I felt it.

The old me — the one who used to question herself,

she didn’t come home with me.

I bled, and something died.

Not with violence, but with peace.

With knowing.

The moon is waxing,

and so am I —

becoming, quietly,

in my own time.

I honor the slowing.

I honor the blood.

I honor this ancient rhythm

as it flows through me like memory.

The moon is just beginning again —

and so am I.

Almost

I wanted the music,

not the man.

I wanted to feel electric,

not invaded.

I wanted to be touched,

but not claimed.

I felt him pulling me —

tongue, hands, the rush of being wanted —

and I almost stayed.

Almost.

But God whispered in the space between my ribs:

“This isn’t my plan for you.”

So I looked up.

The sky was thick.

Rain was coming.

And I used the clouds

as my exit wound.

I didn’t leave because I didn’t care.

I left because I finally do.

222

I had dreams about you, dreams I resisted to decipher. When I finally did, the same dream came to me again, and again, as if my subconscious finally remembered all the feelings I repressed.

I saw you and thought about the boy from the past; I put my hand on your shoulder; I searched for you in the crowd; I looked up and saw magical lights up in the sky.

When my tears rolled down my cheeks, I wanted it to stop, as if it's a shame to care for someone that deep, someone like you-a reflection of me.

When I finally came back to my own body, I remembered: happiness is a choice.

"Don't think about all the things you fear, just be glad to be here”

Dream

Behind me, your finger
poked my back—
I sank, then rose,
arranging scattered cloth
as if to make order
of the chaos inside me.

A mark rests there in reality,
a mole on my spine—
is it you?
Or God?
I could not tell,
and for a while,
I wandered in confusion.

You knelt and wrote upon the ground,
while light shimmered above—
magical, alive,
like the Northern Lights
dancing across a sky I wanted you to see.
Silent letters bleeding
into dust and air.

And I remember the Woman,
caught, condemned—
and Jesus writing in the sand.
Her shame, my shame—
woven with desire,
with sin,
with awe.

For a while, I was lost—
but then I read the Word
and understood:
it was God.

I'll see you in the next life

I was on my knees when you danced through my storm.
The pain was overwhelming. I thought I should be the one to save, yet I realized I am the one who needs saving.

I began to wonder if the “performance” was ever worth it—if you were even real. Maybe you were only a mirror, reflecting my deepest secrets. I played a one-man show, and the only audience was God.

The silence was deafening. I could hear the echoes of my own thoughts.

In the end, I understood: I created you—a perfect man, tailored to fit the story I had conjured in my daydreams.

When I left, a mole appeared on the back of my left hand. A few months earlier, one had appeared on my right hand, shaped like a cross. Perhaps they are marks of the journey I am meant to walk alone, reminders of the truths I have discovered.

Are you my twin?

A Time Machine, red shoes and the spirit of love

A rock from the ancestors,
A fire I ignited,
The intertwining flame.

I climbed your mountains—F is your last name.
I thought the other side would bring another feeling,
But it was the Red Sea.

My angels followed me when I saw your face:
Long hair, baby-blue eyes, and the rabbits.

In the deep sea, the Red Sea is the blood of ancestors.

Who are you? A stranger?
A past-life connection, I say.
“Karma,” he says.
Universal love, unconditional.
Schemes are written by her—you produced them, or I did.
You are a man, but the energy has flown...

A sick lover, an aching soul.
Butterflies are alive. So are you.

If it’s a feeling… it’s for you.
You—I mean the imagined you.
It was fear, then desire, sexual attraction… and love?
All behind my rose-colored glasses.

An angel. I saw the devil—in me.

Secrets of this world

I thought you were a person, but you are Woody from Toy Story.

Maybe I played you too hard, and now I realize—you are not for display. You exist to experience the world through your own eyes, and I am just me, flying, observing, untethered.

Should I be the main character of my life? They kept telling me I should. But then I think of the toy—a cowboy who was there to save me from my sins.

I don’t really know what I’m saying, and you shouldn’t either. That’s why there are secrets in this world.

A nurse from Germany.