Phases of a Girl the Moon Forgot to Name

🌒 This poem is for the girl who feels too much and says too little.
For the introspective girl who hasn’t been written about or seen—not properly.

The ones whose thoughts are too tall to be understood.

If you’ve ever overthought love, outgrown your own shadow, or felt like a full moon in a world of streetlights... this is for you.

I. new moon
She was born from an impatient hush,
in the breath before bloom,
where questions curl quiet
in the corners of rooms.

Tall as a thought
that forgot where it’s going—
a girl made of maybe,
half-lit and unknowing.

She learned how a kiss,
given early, can stay—
not in lips,
but in shame that won’t wash away.

Some wounds do not open,
they hum when not shown,
like flowers that blossom
when left all alone.

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II. crescent
She dances like dusk
on the edge of a sigh,
not trying to be noticed,
but missed passing by.

A flicker, a gesture,
a rhythm withheld—
a secret she keeps
in the shape of herself.

The moon leaned in once,
but she would not turn—
as if longing were fire
and she could not burn.

She rows unshed moans (half-formed lust)
in lines she rewrites,
then lets them get lost
in her sleep-covered nights.

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III. half moon
She writes of her ache
like a scholar with grace—
each heartbeat a footnote,
each pause like a trace.

Her longing wears glasses,
her grief takes down notes,
she diagrams beta waves
in marginal quotes.

Her poems don’t beg,
they resist and retreat—
each stanza a mirror
she cannot quite meet.

She doesn’t confess—
she constructs, she contains,
her yearning arranged
like unseasonal rains.

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IV. full moon
But sometimes,
the orbit forgets its own rule,
and she glows like a girl
who’s mistaking the moon.

She lets herself bloom
with no name, no disguise,
becoming the question
that swells in your skies.

No longer too much
of a mind to be touched,
no longer too tall
to be wanted as such.

She shines—not because
she believes it is right,
but because, for a second,
she doesn’t feel slight.

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V. waning
But fullness was always
a borrowed light.
She folds again.

The glow retreats
like a secret
too sacred for daylight.

She returns to her orbit—
bossy with the stars,
gentle with the dark.

She jokes of older moons
that might read her better,
but none have dared
to write her yet.

So I leave this—
a quiet tide,
an unmapped pull—
not to capture you,
but to say:

Even the moon,
before she was named,
was just a girl
learning how to glow
without asking permission.

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©️ Copyright Notice

© 2025 Cass Delmare. All rights reserved.

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🌘 Some girls don’t ask to be written about—
but they leave orbits behind anyway.

If you recognized her in these lines,
hold her closer.
If you saw yourself,
you’re not alone in the phases.

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