luna hart

Joined October 2025

56 stories

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The Season That Listens
Winter arrived without knocking. It slid its hand under the door, quiet as a held breath, and by morning the world had changed its language.
By luna hartabout a month ago in Journal
I Am Not Quiet Anymore
I learned early that silence is polite, that pain should whisper, that survival should never make noise. So I folded my screams into my pockets, carried them like loose change, spent them only when no one was watching.
By luna hartabout a month ago in Poets
The Confession That Never Slept
By the time the city learned his name, he was already gone. The first confession arrived at 3:17 a.m., typed in clean paragraphs and sent from a public library computer that shut down minutes later. It wasn’t addressed to the police or the press. It was posted anonymously in an online forum frequented by insomniacs, night-shift workers, and people who believed the dark hours told the truth better than daylight.
By luna hartabout a month ago in Criminal
Love, Written Softly
Love did not arrive like thunder, it came the way dawn does— quiet, patient, asking nothing of the dark except permission to pass.
By luna hartabout a month ago in Poets
Art Refused to Be Silent
Art never saved me in the dramatic way people like to tell stories. There was no moment where I stood before a canvas and suddenly understood my purpose, no lightning bolt of genius, no applause waiting on the other side of creation. What art did instead was quieter—and far more stubborn. It stayed when everything else learned how to leave.
By luna hartabout a month ago in Art
Silence Learned to Speak
In the beginning, I believed silence was empty. That belief came from books, from classrooms, from people who spoke loudly enough to convince me that worth is measured in volume. Speak up, they said. Be heard. Leave a mark. But no one ever taught me how to listen to what remains after the noise leaves.
By luna hartabout a month ago in Poets
Nature Doesn’t Ask to Be Understood
Nature does not speak in sentences. It speaks in pauses— the kind that slow your breathing before you notice you were rushing at all.
By luna hartabout a month ago in Poets
I Loved You Without Borrowed Words
I did not fall in love— I learned its weather. How your silence could frost a room, how your laughter bent light the way heat bends roads in summer.
By luna hartabout a month ago in Poets
Love, After It Leaves
We loved each other in unfinished sentences. Always almost. Always later. Our mouths learned the shape of “someday” but our hands never reached it.
By luna hartabout a month ago in Poets
The Quiet Things I Never Said
I learned the sound of loss before I learned how to name it. It arrived softly— not as thunder, but as rooms that echoed
By luna hartabout a month ago in Poets
I Loved You Like an Earthquake
I loved you like an earthquake, Not the gentle tremor before dawn, But the shudder that splits the earth wide, Opening chasms no one warned me about.
By luna hartabout a month ago in Poets
Small Acts
In the quiet moments, when no one is watching, revolutions are seeded in the smallest of acts. These aren’t the grand speeches or the thunderous declarations; they are the whispers of change—almost imperceptible to the untrained eye—yet they carry the weight of an entire future. We often think of revolutions as the sudden eruptions of power, the tidal waves of force that sweep through history. But, in truth, they are often built from the quiet moments before the storm.
By luna hartabout a month ago in Motivation