The crescent moon glows modestly in the dead of night. Its presence is always made known. Mysteriously luminous— Is it quietly confident or deeply diffident? Despite its predictability and its cyclical pattern, a full moon retains its novelty. So far out of reach, always unattainable, much like the relationship between her and herself. Her love for herself in its thinnest crescent, almost invisible, almost entirely absent, but the glow from the crescent is enough to keep her alive. Her self-love passes through the cycle each day waxing until it’s wonderfully full. And she can once again be entirely and emphatically as she is, blissfully unafraid of her own existence. Yet the moon will inevitably begin to wane. She shrinks into herself waning with the phases of the moon. Diminishing her chance of being too deeply assessed. She gleams modestly against the vast emptiness of the night. Unmistakably present, her own glowing image of herself, constantly unstable, forever cycling in the fathomless darkness of her mind.