They say she flew.
I say she was flung.

A woman drinks what was never hers.
The sky remembers theft like scripture.

The moon was not her destination.
It was a sentence.

She landed with her hair aflame, mouth full of names
no one asked her to keep.

No one tells you the elixir tastes like metal,
or that godhood burns going down.

She does not miss the archer.
She misses hunger, noise, the heat of being wrong.

Up here, everything glows—sterile.
Even silence grows a spine.

When she walks, the dust remembers.
When she speaks, the craters shudder.

Some nights, she carves her name into the dust
just to watch it vanish again.

Tell the children: she is lonely.
Tell them: she would do it again.