they sculptured you,
"a replica of the sun,"
they said.

"the world is dark and brutal,
but she is so brave"

you draw art
and you drink on the days you wish
they never sculpted you in the first place.

you write love stories
and poetry
and you cry sometimes
and you call yourself weak

"nothing more than a failure,
I am just no good"



"she's something unique,
don't you think?"

19 years is too young to feel broken  

"oh how she smiles just like the sun,
and oh how she weeps just as the moon."


but a few years from now
you'll sit yourself outside,
you'll play the soft tunes in your ears
and you'll sing along a little

and you'll realize,
you'll realize

the sun is a courages thing
she hides at night,
but she flaunts herself so bright.

you really are

an exact replica of the sun

2 am,
you slept,
knees curled in towards your chest,
a ball,
trying to protect the fragile bones
lying there.

3 am,
you cried,
gripped your pillow tight,
begged for the lost to come back.

4 am,
you showered,
cleaned the sweat from your
achy limbs.

tried to scrub
the sadness from your hair.

5 am,
you made tea,
looked at a picture of them,
and wept.

6 am,
you walked,
flowers in one hand,
a book of poems in the other.

7 am,
you kneeled like a pastor
besides their grave,
prayed for deliverance,
prayed to see their eyes,
just once more.

8 am,
you read to them,
love stories,
you told them about your adventures,
and how you aren't doing so well.

9 am,
you slept with your hands
dug in the dirt,
wishing you could dig them out
and hold them in your arms.

10 am,
you gathered your things,
and walked back alone.

11 am,
you flopped yourself on the bed,
you wished you were dead.