Today’s #WordCrushWednesday goes out to Jay Pearson. A 17 year old senior at Pompano Beach High School. As a member of the LGBTQ community, she pulls inspiration from that experience and her own personal story. Today we have the amazing opportunity to share a beautifully scripted piece by Jay called What The Moon Would’ve Said

things the moon would’ve said to neil armstrong when he landed, given the chance (a conversation)



this guy comes sauntering along and reaches

himself into a space suit an inch or a mile thick and asks for mercy

from behind a glass bowl.

he’s got a few minutes hovering in this spot before the sun kicks in

and shrivels him the way he was supposed to, and

he’s made of radio waves, for now, bouncing

out of my atmosphere and into a box in your living room.


let me tell you a story:


at one point i wanted to be earth so badly that i kissed her oceans

and caressed her tectonic plates, pulled them

up from the core with my fingernails. i’ve made eye contact with

lifeforms at the microscopic. i saw the dinosaurs die from so far away i couldn’t

even smell them rot. i don’t

breathe in the daytime. i existed before you were even thought of.


i watched you grow too, crawling out of the water and forming the gods in your hands

making me to be a creation of the finite.

i saw the greeks attach a face to my halo.

i was there for the birth of music. i watched mozart suffocate.


let me tell you something:

i know what you came here for.


you want to trophy me. you want to take a picture of earth from my eyes

and hang it on your wall.

and you’ve scarred me, too. before this i was a mirror reflecting

your daytime back into the night.

i was a rewind button.  i was the light at the end of the tunnel:

die and look at the moon.

before you touched me you were a mystery that i watched like

a benevolency from the sky.

i swallowed myself whole, too, with the saltwater and the sunlight.

photosynthesis was your name before you walked on water

and then on me. and your ancestors would think you’re jesus.

your ancestors would think you’re allah.

i moved you inside your mother and you knew me before you saw me.

i bathed an innocent child by the millions in my atoms. i held

a dead species walking in my fingertips.

the journey here was made of math and dark matter ate it.

i am my own life form. you kiss underneath me.


and now i am what i am.

an object. a sphere that can be measured.

time isn’t

mine anymore.


this is how it is now.


you came here for water and life,

a second day, the weightlessness

you own upon yourself.

before you came to touch me i was a silence.


and now i belong to you. i was never

a boundary. you came to see me for yourself. and now

i advertise. i am the commodity. stories

don’t get written about the moon

anymore. luna was fiction. artemis was imagination.

i still watch things die but

now i watch them from the eyes of a dying man.


just remember

if i were to crack your glass bowl you would never be able to breathe again.

i have no atmosphere. i cannot burn you but i can suffocate you the

way i was meant to.


so touch your radio and call home. one small

step for man,

one giant scar on the face of the moon.

and you sit and breathe

back and forth. maybe forever. and the people down there, the people i

watched be born, they’d cry knowing their math wasn’t right.

you are, after all, just a man.

i rescued you from the darkness that became you.


there’s a reason

why you can still see me

in the daytime.


Amorette Lormil